The corpse was headless. It lay huddled in a dark corner where only the faint light of the moon filtering through the wooden shutters picked out the paleness of naked skin from the prevailing gloom.

A dark shadow moved in the gray light, and an ancient voice rasped, "Look around for the head!"

"What for?" growled another voice. A second shadow joined the first. "It's no use to anybody but the rats." The speaker cackled suddenly. "Or hungry ghosts. For playing kickball."

"Fool!" The first shadowy creature turned and, for a moment the moonlight caught a wild mane of tangled white hair. It was a woman, crouching demonlike over the body, her claws quickly tucking some white, soft fabric inside her ragged robe, "I want the hair."

"Are you blind? That's a man!" protested her male companion. "There's not going to be enough hair on it to get a good grip." He leaned to peer at the body. "Besides, he's an old one."

"He's been well-fed." She tweaked the corpse's belly and slapped his buttocks. "Feel his skin! Soft as silk, eh?"

"So? Much good that's gonna do him. Poor beggar's dead."

"Beggar?" the woman shrieked with derision. "Touch his feet! You think that one walked? Not likely. Rode in coaches and palanquins, I bet. Now go find that head! He'll have long hair all twisted up neatly on top. That's worth ten coppers at least. The good people don't cut it off like you 'n me. Their women have hair so long they can walk on it. I wish we'd get one o' them!"

The man snickered. "Me, too. I'd know what I'd do to her!" he said and smacked his lips suggestively.

The old woman gave him a kick.

"Ouch!" He cursed, then backhanded her viciously. In a moment they were fighting like a pair of hungry alley cats. He gave up first and retreated a few steps.

She rearranged her robe, making sure she still had her booty, then snapped, "We gotta get out o' here before the patrol comes. Go look for that head! It's gotta be somewheres. Maybe it rolled behind that bunch o' rags back there."

"Them's not rags!" muttered the old man, poking the bundle with his foot. "It's another one."

"What? Let's see!" She scurried over, peered and straightened up disappointedly. "Just an old crone. Nothing worth taking on her. Starved to death from the looks o' her, and cut her own hair off long ago. Where's that head?"

"I tell you, it's not here," whined the man, poking around in all the corners.

"Well," she said in a tone of outrage, "I don't know what the place is coming to. Now they're not even in one piece. You suppose the patrol will call the police?"

"Naw," said her companion. "Too much trouble for the lazy bastards. You done?"

"Guess so." She looked about. "Two tonight?"

"Yeah. You get anything?"

"A loincloth and socks," she muttered, secretly touching the fine silk of the dead man's undergown which nestled between her sagging breasts. "Bet some bastard made off with the head and the rest o' his clothes. Let's go!" She shuffled towards the doorway.

"Wonder who the old guy was," he said as he followed her down the stairs.

"What do you care?" she snapped. On the ground floor, she peered cautiously into the street from behind one of the huge pillars. "When that one was alive he'd not waste a thought on you 'n' me! Well, now he's dead and his socks'll pay for our supper and that loincloth'll buy some cheap wine. It all comes out even in the end."