Emmaline, moved furtively through the streets of Lashiek. It was the first time she had been in the city, save for when she had been auctioned off to the Emir but fortunately most port cities shared a number of similarities. Her stolen clothing didn’t make her particularly inconspicuous and her pale skin and golden hair were a problem as well. It was doubtful that the Emir’s guards would pursue her, right now the Emir’s several sons were no doubt fighting for their father's inheritance, and though they might eventually seek out their father’s murderess she intended to be long gone by then. 

Like most of the night shrouded city the Goldsmith’s quarter was not particularly busy at this late hour. Stoney faced guards holding spears and vicious looking cudgels stood at street corners, each bearing an armband of deep green that identified them as belonging to the Goldsmith’s guild. It was easier to dissuade thieves with a community effort it seemed. A few of the shops, either more enterprising or working late to finish particular contract, remained opened, the light streaming from their white washes doorways and curtain shrouded windows giving them away. Picking one at random she stepped inside, pleased and surprised at how much cooler it was. The store was a single large room, filled with tables atop which a variety of jewellery mostly brass and copper but with occasional pieces of gold, were laid out on rather moth eaten fabric trays. A dripping clay urn hung from the ceiling suspended by slime slickend ropes, acting to cool the room. A seedy looking shop keeper in a red fez looked up from behind the counter where he was working on a pendant of some kind, a cracked monocular on one eye.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a voice as dry as the desert wind. 

“I’d like to sell a piece of jewelry,” she said, they shopkeeper looked surprised at her arabic, but a year as a slave had given her plenty of time to master the language. She withdrew the ruby ring, the smallest of the pieces she had taken from the body of her former owner and held it out for inspection. A crafty look crossed the old man’s face and he glanced out towards the guards on the street.

“I wouldn’t,” Emmaline warned, “I might be a forgiener, but im not stupid.” She drew back her cloak to reveal the hilt of the stolen scimitar.

“If you call out to the guards to claim I stole it from you, I might be in trouble, but you WILL be dead,” she promised. The shopkeeper looked a little sulky at that.

“No need for threats mistress,” he whined.

“Not if you deal fairly with me at any rate, it will be much easier for both of us,” she returned. It took about a quarter hour, and she allowed the man to cheat her slightly to salve his pride, but she emerged from the store with a bag of coins and a satisfied expression. Now if only she could find some local clothes that fit her a little better than the stolen guard uniform.

“Stop in the name of the Satrap!” a voice barked from the end of the street. A guard, this one dressed much more grandly than the bored looking mercenaries, stalked towards her with a scimitar in his hand.

“Uhh…” Emmaline temporised.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, edging back away from the man. Surely he wasn’t from the Emir.

“The satrap was robbed, we are rounding up suspicious people, such as Godless foregin whores abroad in the middle of the night,” he snarled. Emmaline resisted the urge to scream in frustration and forced herself to stand very still. 
“I see,” she said in Riekspiel, “and may Ranald take your bloody balls.”

The guard clearly didn't understand the words but seeing she intended no resistance, stepped towards her and reached for her with a gauntleted hand. With a scream she bought her knee up and drove it into the Arabyian’s crotch with all her might. He let out a scream of agony and doubled over. Without a second thought she turned and bolted down the nearest alleyway as fast as her legs could carry her.