Chapter 2
Fariah walked as quickly as she could without rousing suspicion. The guards on city patrol still had not been alerted about the Temple attack. But the Turmens hardly needed a reason to harass a seemingly vulnerable Missene woman. She needed to be out of the city before there was a general alarm.
She had no illusions about what would happen. Samnos Heganon's fury would descend on the city. Even the slightest hint of suspicion could land you on Buku. Worse things had been done for much less.
She turned into one of the smaller streets branching off from Temple Street, noting the almost invisible sun symbol behind a pile of crates as she did so. At least some of the rest were free.
It was well past the Second High at night but light from the massive street torches of Temple Street penetrated the darkness of the tiny lane. This close to the center of the city, the houses were those of the elite - Temple priests and Turmen nobles and a handful of Missene nobles. The opulence was evident even in the weak light. Fariah could see it in their ornate columns and alabaster walls. Several houses had gardens with gazebos in them. Gardens in this land of dirt! With flowers whose names she didn't even know. There was even a marble statue of the Emperor's son in one of the gardens.
She stopped suddenly. She thought she had heard something other than the ambient noises of the night. A steely clang, casual in its timbre. She tried to not think about the stakes on Buku.
A fleeting movement to her right; somewhere in the maze of shadows. A cat? Keep walking, she told herself.
The deeper she went into the lanes, the darker it became. She was still in the Temple district, still around nauseating opulence, but the cobbled stones were more uneven under her feet. A few more streets and she will be relatively safe in the Outer district. Relatively.
"Who goes there?"
Her heart stopped cold and she felt bile rise up her throat. She forced herself to stop naturally, to turn slowly, ensuring that her body communicated her submission and her terror. The terror part was not difficult for Fariah.
It was not a soldier. But he was a Turmen. That much was clear even in the semi-darkness from his high forehead and his pale skin. He was emerging from one of the noble residences through a side gate.
"You there? Who are you, girl? What are you doing here?"
Fariah quickly fell to her knees.
"Pardon, my lord. I work at Lord Magon's manor. The lord is holding a banquet tonight and we are out of wine. I am heading to fetch them, my lord."
Too fast. It sounded like what it was, a memorized story.
"Ah! Carus's ball. I had been meaning to attend myself. Very well. Off you go, woman." He was turning back to his residence.
"Is there a problem here, my lord?"
Fariah didn't dare lift her eyes from the ground, but she could see the heavy boots of the city patrol. Her heart had started working again and it was hammering madly in her breast.
"What's that, patrolman? No, no problem. I was just questioning this Missene maid. Nothing to worry, boys."
The patrolman didn't seem to have heard the assurance. He approached Fariah.
"You. Stand up."
Fariah stood and looked up at him with what she hoped was a meek expression.
The patrolman looked at her intently, studying every feature of her face. He was a lean Turmen with hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.
"What's your name, Missene?"
"Tamara of Barria, sendi. I work for Lord Magon, the Treasurer of-"
"I know who Lord Magon is, girl. Hold her men!"
Fariah let out a small scream as the other patrolmen quickly grabbed her hands and legs and spread them.
"Really, patrolman, there is no need to do this," the Trumen noble was saying in slightly scandalized tones.
"Pardon, my lord, but we have reasons to believe she may be a rabble rouser. We need to be sure." He then knelt in front of Fariah. She did not try to free herself or resist, but every sinew of her body was protesting in revulsion and fear.
The patrolman lifted her robes over her legs and one of the other guards sniggered softly. "P-please, sendi," Fariah whispered through clenched teeth.
"Shut up!"
He lifted her woolen robe all the way above her thighs and inspected them like a goat trader. Fariah cringed at his touch. His rough fingers were prodding her inner thigh, pinching the skin.
"Hmmm… nothing," he murmured.
"Patrolman! What are you doing," the noble asked. "Is this really necessary? Must we debase ourselves like these barbarians?"
The patrolman dropped the hem and stood up, clearly not happy with having found nothing.
"There is no place for decency with these Missene rebels, your lordship." He turned to Fariah. "I know your name, Tamara of Barria. Don't let me catch you again. Let her go."
She was surprised to see her legs didn't give way. She produced a sniffle for their benefit, made hasty bows and walked hurriedly towards the Outer district.
She was disoriented. Was this third street? She suddenly didn't care about being nondescript. She broke into a run, hearing clangs and jeering cat calls behind her. Or was she imagining? The dark windows of the wealthy mocked her. How many saw her dishonoured? How many saw her thighs exposed like a cheap puda?
She ran like a little child, petrified of the salivating monster in the darkness. She was dimly aware of narrowing streets, of dirt and garbage and the stench of people and goats. As if through water, she saw the rickety walls and straw roofs of the Outer district. Even at this time of the night, there were people about – porters and couriers, storage men and maids. The Outer district never slept.
But she didn't feel safe. The narrow streets were closing in on her. Even here, the people were eyeing her sideways. She found it difficult to breathe. She was drowning in a sea of wool.
Abruptly, she wept. She gasped and gulped and wept. She didn't know how she came to squatting on the gutter cover, but she cried and bawled, wishing for her dead father's lap. His scent of musk and sweat and spices. He would have fought the perverted guards. He would have embraced her and held her close, away from those beasts.
"You need a shoulder to cry on, pretty thing?"
She flinched. She didn't even wait to see who it was. Like a snake, she unwound, bringing her legs crashing against the speaker's thin shanks. She heard a yelp of surprise as a toothless old man fell like a sack of sand.
"Aargh! No! I didn't mean to-" he backed off from her looking quite miserable.
Fariah quickly walked away, wiping her cheeks. She felt strangely relieved. There would be a time for tears later. Time for mourning. But she had to find the others.
It took a while for her to find the fish-seller's stall. It was boarded up for the night, of course. She checked the lane to make sure she wasn't being watched and ducked behind the salt crates. She felt with her palm along the bottom crates until her fingers found a metal ring resting in a groove. She tugged at it and the false crate's side swiveled down to reveal a ladder in the darkness leading down.
She lowered herself on the ladder, closing the crate-door behind her. She stepped down the rungs carefully, counting in her head. The eighteenth step. She stopped. She knew the ladder ended there, and nothing but the void below. If they had been compromised, she would know in a moment.
She took a calming breath and let go. She dropped twelve feet into the darkness. She felt her stomach leap up to her throat.
With a soft thump, she fell on a bed of hay.
Dusting herself up, Fariah silently thanked the Divine Light.
She had landed in a tiny room with a heavy wooden door. Hoping against hope, she pushed the door open.