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or ice or mud, after all?
    Well, at least the foot
was warm, if still tingling from her anger. She bowed a tiny bow to
herself, permission to admit error. That was a trick her only
social mentor taught her a bare day before she was off to be
Contract-wifed: sometimes the only real
person in the room is yourself, but manners must be served even
so.
    In fact she was being unfair to herself, for
she'd had such offers from travelers and drunks from the time she'd
first driven for her clan, in fact since her second fare. Well she
recalled that, and moreso since that person was seated yet on Liad,
comfortable and honored on the Council of Clans, while she, Ring
stripped from her finger, stood in danger of -- but, again, no. She
would not permit herself to believe that this banishment, this
mercy from her daughter the delm, might yet end in the death for
which the Council had sued.
    The line moved, with the work-pair who'd
stood in front of her moving now together toward a table to the
left while four other tables with work supplicants in place were
revealed to her. A very short line; apparently the weather was
expected, indeed, to ''turn bad.''
    The man behind shuffled close and whispered
toward her, and she glanced at him, hard, pushing the lingo through
her teeth, near as she could.
    ''Nothangya, heerit?''
    He mumbled and backed away a half-step, lips
tight.
    Compared to the offer from
a clan head to pet her face with tongue and tumescence, this man's
offer was downright honorable: '' I've
worked three days myself, little miss. You don't have to work today
if you want to booze and wrestle. Payday for you, food for you,
feels fine for you. Got heat, got smokes, got a damn big bed. Yes,
I say no blizzard to shovel, no dreaming alone.''
    Her delm had been unimpressed by her outrage
-- a lesson well learned, that. A Lower House could hardly bring
such a complaint against one of the High without evidence -- and
such evidence, were there any, would hardly survive the
impoundment.
    Here, the offer was a passing of the time of
day. Practical and even, perhaps honorable. That she had living
funds for less than a Standard more in this place weighed on her,
but work was in fact available at times . . . and she was in noways
desperate, this day.
    The table to the right cleared, a man of
middle height and middle years smiling and hurrying off with a
bright blue chit in hand -- going to do something for the street
association, she'd figured out over time. That would be day-pay and
not long-term, she'd heard in the bakery, but day-pay was day-pay,
after all.
    She took the vacant spot with alacrity.
    ''Heavy manual labor?''
    The man behind the table was familiar; his
voice was brusque and impartial as ever. She raised her head in
consideration, and made a counteroffer, staring at the seven bright
blue tubs behind him, each mostly empty, and the brown one, with
scraps in the bottom.
    ''Mechanics, systems, detail work,
Trade-writing, Liaden-writing, light stock and inventory,
driving.''
    The man pursed his lips.
    ''Picked up anything new overnight? This
ain't being a busy day.''
    ''Translation? Garden design?''
    He shook his head, muttering, ''Don't think
so.''
    He turned dutifully and pulled the few
sheets of hard copy out of the brown tub, fanning them, glancing up
with a sigh and going through the sheets one by one, the first
quite dismissively.
    ''I got armed security, long-term -- bring
your own gun, night work. I got 'crete formula mixer,
experienced.'' He paused, shook his head. ''That one I bet you can
do, sound of you, but they want experienced, which I'm betting you
can't.''
    ''This is true, '' she admitted. ''I can
learn --''
    ''No on the job training, they're right
clear, since winter-time set-up is nothing for beginners.''
    He pulled another sheet. ''Whorehouse needs
all positions, mixed hours.''
    She closed her
eyes. Not yet.
    ''Serious work there,'' he said earnestly.
''An' they got need for some folk who ain't doing the customers .