Emmaline curled her lips with Imperial disdain for the barbarism of Araby. Altdorf footpads might cut your throat but at least they wouldn’t try to claim you as property. Although she appreciated why Amal had claimed to be her owner it didn’t exactly overwhelm her with happiness either. To take her mind off the dark thoughts that were growing there she glanced around the interior of the spire. It was dark and cool and a vague hint on incense hung in the air. A winding staircase against one wall lead up and down while in the center of the room was a large table heaped with food. Curiously bronze statues of servants stood around the food as though in the process of preparing the feast. 

“Amal, why would a ground floor window not be barred?” she asked uneasily. Amal opened his mouth to reply and looked back towards the window. There was nothing there except smooth stonework.

“Hrmmm,” he temporized looking back to Emmaline with a look of shock on his face. The statues gleamed under the light of a pair of lanterns that hung from hooks in the wall.

“I think we should get out of here,” she said, reaching up and lifting one of the lanterns. As the light shifted the bronze statues began to move, chopping vegetables and preparing food. One turned and looked incuriously at Amal and Emmaline.

“Definitely time to go,” she squeaked and hurried up the stairs, figuring that one direction was much the same as the other. The next floor was similarly windowless and held a dormitory that must have either been for servants or soldiers. Though no pursuit or alarm was evident they quickly hurried up to the next level. Emerging from stairway they found themselves in a somewhat shabby work shop. Alchemical equipment, familiar to Emmaline, though strange and exotic to Amal was set up on benches, liquid flames licked the glass and sent strange liquids and vapors through the condensing tubes and bubbled concentrating flasks. A crudely built book shelf contained a few dozen moth eaten volumes and a pile of scrolls and papyri. As they entered a pimply faced young Arabyian in a threadbare robe jumped to his feet his eyes wide with shock.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded drawing himself up in what he probably imagined was an impressive fashion.

“Uhhh we came in through the window,” Emmaline explained, blue eyes darting around the chamber.

“Ah more flies drawn to the honey trap I see,” he cackled, revealing yellowed crooked teeth.

“You are now the slaves of Suhayl Tahir,” he declared pompously. Emmaline arched a blonde eyebrow, her face irritated at a second attempt to enslave her in ten minutes.

“And that is you?” she asked skeptically. The youthful man cleared his throat, apparently taken aback that they hadn’t fallen on their knees in supplication.  

“Ah, no, I am Lufti, his most favored apprentice, submit now and it will go easier for you!” he cried, melodramatically raising his hand so that arcane energy danced across his palms.

“I see,” Emmaline said reasonably and then smashed her lantern into the side of Lufti’s head. There was a sound like iron hitting sand as well as a cracking of glass as the lantern struck the apprentice squarely, the arc of the lanterns short chain making up what Emmaline’s slight frame could not supply in strength. Lufti dropped to the floor like a poleaxed steer, the arcane energy sputtering and dissipating.