Not Enough 1299

"Swear it upon your God, Jew." Jhonen stood hunched over in a small, dark foundry. Dwarven settlements were not built even for Orim, and Jhonen had a Lugdim King's foot upon any Orim.

"I cannot, Senor Jhonen." The hunchbacked Dwarf known as Zhelyazo gave a pitiful bow while examining one of the trinkets Jhonen had produced. His eyes glittered with greed.

"Do you not believe in the God of the Jews?"

"I do, and this is why I cannot swear such a thing. He Who Hides Between the Lines cannot be sworn upon by a mortal."

"What is the point of a God if you cannot use him to prove your virtue to others?" Abram, sitting comfortably upon a couch that would fall under Jhonen's weight, chuckled and stroked his black, well-trimmed beard. "Jews have asked this for millenia, Jhonen. There is no good answer."

"Then why should I trust this Jew of Iron?" Jhonen did not even make eye contact with Zhelyazo.

Zhelyazo grinned a comical grin. Scars and burns covered his face, and a fresh burn covered the tip of his long blunt nose. Cuts and chipped teeth marked where hard hot metal hit soft flesh or cold teeth. His face had the wrinkles of badly tanned leather left out to dry. Where Abram was simply ugly, Zhelyazo was worn-out.

"You trust me more than men, elsewise you wouldn't have crawled through mule shit to get to me." Zhelyazo turned his weathered face to Abram and leveled an accusing finger at the reclining Dwarf. "And you trust that Jew. Never has Valencia seen a worse scoundrel. There are whores more trustworthy." Abram merely laughed and reclined further. He had given Zhelyazo this job, he would do well to remember that. Later, he would remember it, Abram was sure. With all the pain of, at least a broken nose.

"That scoundrel is my clan brother." Zhelyazo gave a high-pitched laugh, his face crunching up further. "Jew and Gentile? Uncircumcised and circumcised? You only see such things in Arab orgies!"

"Zhelyazo...." Abram spoke in warning tones. Jhonen had already brought his hand around the little weathered Jew's face. His skin did feel like old leather.

"You stand upon a yew branch. Get to the end and get a slap on the backside." He released his hand from the Jew's face. "Now, Jew, what will ya give me for my trust?"

Zhelyazo looked at Jhonen with a snarl but.... then his eyes glinted with gold, and with his failures in the foundry business. "I can not take a Clan Bond with you, I am not impure as some." He cast a glance at Abram, who yawned and stroked his beard again. A broken leg would be little hindrance to Zhelyazo's trade, he decided.

"But I can tie you to my Clan Bond." He breathed in heavily, and looked around his dingy foundry. "I will give you my daughter."

Jhonen threw his head back to laugh, with a loud thud! He still laughed, but with some hint of pain. "What am I to do with a Jewess?"

Abram sat up from his reclining. "Jhonen, this is not Ludgim. Jewesses are allowed up-world in Valencia. The Dons who aren't frocios keep them around for quick and easy play, and to ensure that the Dwarf-tolls are used." Jhonen visualized a blue-blooded Don mounting a small deformed Jewess. It was laughable, but certainly within the Dons' realm of perversity. "He would be honored, Zhelyazo of the Iron. Honored." Abram spoke for Jhonen, which got him a dirty glance.

Abram didn’t notice. He simply stroked his beard and wondered if he could borrow Zhelyazo’s daughter from Jhonen. He could use some quick and easy play himself, even if he wouldn't have the height advantage of a Don. He was still certain he could force the young girl’s legs open.

Jhonen and Zhelyazo haggled out a price, the Jew always trying to keep ahead in bargaining.

“Fine, Jew Zhelyazo, one in ten parts of this sack. Deal?” Zhelyazo’s greed floundered for a moment, wondering how many sacks there were. “Deal.” Jhonen extended his hand to Zhelyazo and he clasped it, unsure of the custom. Jhonen shook the small smith’s arm nearly out of socket, but was surprised to find that the burly Jew could hold his own.

“How many sacks are there? One or two more?” Obviously he was considering taking some more out of the sacks by his tone of his voice,

“About twenty. Never thought I’d out-Jew a Jew.” Zhelyazo looked about to speak, Jhonen interrupted. “I’ll be taking your daughter now.”

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Jhonen and Abram ambled out of Zhelyazo's dilapidated foundry. They were in the Dark Quarter, where magical lights failed and only the drains of muck-pits filtered in light or air. The place reeked. At least in Zhelyazo's foundry the heat and oils and sweat blocked out the shit in the air. Some perfume graced the air, but it was not enough.

Rebeccah stood respectfully behind them. Jhonen had never seen a Jewess before; he had assumed they were as ugly as a horse's ass, same as the males. Rebeccah was certainly not. About four of a Lugdim King's feet, she was, a head or so taller than Zhelyazo and had a few motes on Abram. She had no beard under her veil, Abram's bar-room jokes were tossed out. She was attractive in an exotic manner; her looks reminded Jhonen more of the swarthy slaves of the Deraxti, not of any Jews. Maybe some Dons did have good taste.

Some hungry and dirty youths stood on the street-corner. Probably standing there to rob passerby in the dark, illegal quarter. They recognized Abram, not many scoundrels didn't. Their faces showed fear at the sight of Jhonen. They would have hard time bringing down an Orim, much less a Northman.

One of them, presumably the band's leader, threw long, oily hair out of his face. A mistake, that, his nose was crooked and his face beset with sores.

"Ey, Screws," The youth leader called Abrams by his criminal name. "Qui es puta?" His voice was scratchy and upon speaking, the smell of alcohol became obvious. Cheap, gato piss.

Abram bared his teeth in a comical grin. "El Gigante's lady-friend. Wish to call her a whore again?"

The youth flipped his hair back into his face and took a quick step back. "Nah, Scr... ser Screws. Tell El Gigante to have a good time. I'd reach under that veil, gimme half a'chanch." The youths all chuckled, but stepped back as Jhonen and Abram approached the corner.

Rebeccah walked closer behind them after that. Jhonen could feel her layered cloth wrappings rubbing against his back.

"Give's someone to knife next time, Screws! Not some God-be-damned giant!", the youths yelled after they had gained some distance. "Ja, or give us a good puta!"

Abram laughed. "So, Jhonen, going'ta reach under her veil?"

"No."

"Really? I think she would love to see something uncut." Rebeccah blushed at that, her darkened cheeks obvious even underneath the veil.

"No," he said, and seeing the grin on Abram's face, "And I won't leave her for you either."

Abram didn't quit smiling. "You're no fun. But I'm certain the Lady will find you fun. The entire mote of you." Jhonen gave the little Jew a light slap on the head. "Its more than a mote." Rebeccah blushed further.

They exited the ill-lit Jew-toll, the illegal tunnel into the ghettos of Valencia. Everything but Rebeccah smelled like mules. Her perfume was still not enough.