There are those who say that fate is not a thing to be meddled with, that it cannot be changed or bent to the will. These assentations are not only wrong, they are foolish. In fact, while the future is written, what is written can be changed – in most cases. It is my belief however, that if she had seen a way out, she would have taken it. Her actions, otherwise, make very little sense.

-Sage and Sane Page 11

“Sheena!” Desa called out from the doorway, her tone was less than warm. Sheena glanced up from a pile of mounting paperwork to level her gaze across the surface of the oaken desk, towards the door where Desa as already making her way across the room. She contrasted Sheena heavily in her formal gown, hair pulled into braids, and that regal walk that all of the Rossi’s had adopted. Sheena resisted the growing urge to throw a disdainful look at her own pressed service uniform. 

“Desa,” Sheena said evenly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Am I to not visit my little sister then?” Desa smirked almost playfully as she smoothed the silky folds of her skirt before taking a seat on the padded chair across from Sheena’s desk. As she did so, she gave the room a quick glance before turning her attention to her little sister. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see.”

“Have I?” Sheena frowned. Desa nodded.

“When I did my works, I had a small office near a school outside the Maussen district. It was cramped, really, and the indoor plumbing left…much to be desired. You seem to have your own apartment here.”

“The benefits of residing near the palace, I suppose,” Sheena smiled softly before taking a seat across from her sister, pushing the stacks of paper aside. “I control a rather…small section of the workforce, actually. A man named Elric oversees the men, I, the women, but only on the day cycle, and only for the palace and Vice areas.”

“So not a lot of work then?” Desa frowned. “I chose the wrong assignment I fear.”

“The work is frustration,” Sheena shrugged. “and other matters.”

“Other matters?” 

“Might I ask your silence? It’s a private matter,” Sheena explained. “I cannot divulge all of the details, of course, but some of it may be of use here, assuming you can direct me.”

“Sister,” Desa furrowed her brow. “I’m afraid I know as little about service as you do about school children or tailoring. Oughtn’t you ask someone else?”

“The problem isn’t what you think,” Sheena warned. “It has…very little to do with service, I’d think.”

Sheena nodded curtly, pushing all thoughts of revealing her issues with Micah aside. 

“You are right, of course. What brings you here, sister?”

“Hmm,” Desa shifted slightly in her chair, clenching her hands together atop her skirts. “I must say, I was curious to see if you’d settled in, but I also come with a warning. Don’t stay here too long, little sister.”

“I don’t think I take your meaning,” Sheena frowned. “This is the assignment I chose.”

“I chose an assignment as well,” Desa explained. “As did Lizzi. I stayed with my assignment for a year; this was…a mistake. You don’t need to sacrifice years of your life simply to make the point that the Rossi’s are philanthropists. We can serve our city in other, more effective ways.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Sheena shrugged. “I do have my share of work to do today, however, so if-”

“Sister, I find your office to be most…cramped,” Desa said, looking from left to right at the wood-paneled walls, as if feigning disgust. “Might you accompany me on a stroll about the grounds?”

“I see no harm in that,” Sheena shrugged. “You came here to tour the palace, then?”

“I came to see what my sister has gotten herself into,” Desa corrected her. “Despite outward appearances, I do care for you.”

“Very well,” Sheena said, suppressing a laugh. “Shall we take our leave then?”

Their walk led them from Sheena’s small office to the atrium of the education wing. Truth be told, she always preferred the open, airy, and well-lit sections of this wing to the stuffy hallways in the other areas of the palace. Truthfully, the palace itself was in the center of the grounds, with the academy flanking, and the rest of the well-to-do districts on the outer ring. Now they walked beneath a glass-domed ceiling supported by glass walls, held in place by a thin bass framing. 

They stood on the third level of the atrium – a marble walkway lined with brass railing, and a view to the bottom where a considerable garden had been planted. Sheena was always impressed by the tall indoor trees, the cobblestone walkways, the fountains, and the luscious greenery that lined each walkway. Desa seemed dismissive from her first glance. 

“As I said,” Desa reminded her. “Don’t stay here longer than you must. Three months, at most, sister.”

“Three months,” She repeated. “I can make my peace with that. This place holds no special attachment for me.”

“Good,” Desa nodded, turning from the railing and continuing her walk; Sheena fell in step beside her. “Fear not, you’ll return here to continue your education, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Sheena agreed. “Though I have yet to choose my major.”

“Perhaps your time here will help you decide,” Desa suggested. “Why else would father send us on these errands, if not to give us perspective?”

“Perspective,” Sheena nodded, considering the word. “Yes, I can see that.”

“And, see to it, sister, that you don’t lose your perspective,” Desa warned. “There are plenty of distractions out here.”

“Distractions,” Sheena repeated, nodding. “I dare say I won’t be finding many of those here.”

“A confident disposition,” Desa told her. The railing ended, culminating in a sharp left turn that took them onto an adjacent walkway, and eventually, a walkway that expanded over the concourse below, connecting to a network of hallways flanked on the right side by a long window overlooking the Vice. To their left, a lime-green cinderblock wall with the occasional wooden door interspersed. “I have left instructions, for a package to be delivered to your office. You will find it of use in the coming days.”

“Tell me, Desa,” Sheena stopped, turning toward the railing once more to stare out, through the windows onto the courtyard; her fingers gripped the brass railing. “Philanthropy is the cornerstone of Rossi philosophy, why do you fight me on it? You did it yourself, as did Elizabeth.”

“And I hated every moment of it,” Desa said coldly. “Were you not raised to favor kindness over cruelty? Do you not seek to help rather than harm? What more lessons do you need to learn, little sister?”

“I think we could do with a change of subject,” Sheena said, not bothering to look back at her sister. “Have you ever heard of a man, or a boy, choosing to don the yoke of womanhood?”

“From time to time,” Desa said after a long silence, stepping forward to join Sheena at the railing. “Do you have one such in your employ?”

“I may,” Sheena nodded. “What do you know of this?”

“It does not happen often, especially in Auglire,” Desa mused. “In other parts of the world, being a woman is seen as a shameful thing. In Auglire it operates as a class divide of sorts. There is nothing specifically prohibiting it, but…the traditions, the customs, social requirements, all quite a bit for a man to learn, not to mention the physical changes.”

“Physical changes?”

“There is a law that governs this, little sister,” Desa informed her. “As far as I understand, it’s happened but a handful of times, and those who commit to their new role are required to undergo those changes. To appear more feminine, to sound feminine, requirements must be met.”

“And there is punishment, should they fail?”

“Not by law, no,” Desa shook her head. “Not directly. But they can be ostracized, denied employment, housing, they would beg on the streets.”

“That sounds…dreadful,” Sheena frowned. “How is it I have never heard of this?”

“Because it never happens.”

 

***

 

Lyra squinted and shuddered as the lights in her cell came on. Blinding at first, the light stung her eyes and a cruel dryness gripped her throat. All attempts to move were thwarted by the chains and cuffs binding her wrists and ankles, along with cramps and soreness that had accumulated in her muscles. The immobility sparked a panic at first as she struggled to stretch out, to view her surroundings, anything that involved command of her own body. The crete floor dug into her hip, and her body burned, but the panic subsided, at least briefly, as Jenise’s voice spoke, commanding the guards to loose the chains. 

The relief she felt as the cuffs were released was comparable to nothing else. Tense, rigid, and strained muscles relaxed, and she could swear her entire body breathed a sigh of relief as her limbs dropped to the floor. For a long while, she felt as if she were merely a soul trapped inside a lifeless body, watching the world go by in front of her, helpless to move, to interact. Gradually, she found herself able to move again, and with burning muscles, aching joints, she managed to herself into a semi-upright position, legs sprawled out beneath her, and and her palms pressed on the crete in front of her, supporting the weight of her upper body. 

At Jenise’s word, a tin cup of water was brought and placed in Lyra’s unsteady hand; she took a sip, immediately choking and gagging, the water spraying against the crete. The cup clattered to the floor.

Lyra breathed heavily, one ragged breath after another as she searched for the words she wanted.

“I…wish to speak to the High Lady,” Lyra finally managed to utter. 

“A Nulla demands nothing,” Jenise said evenly, her tone betraying no emotion. “Let alone to speak to the High Lady.”

“A…Nulla?” Lyra’s eyes managed to rise from the floor, just barely meeting Jenise’s.

“You’ve been stripped of your personhood at the High Lady’s word,” Jenise shrugged. “And so, you will obey. I cannot make it simpler. Stand.”

Lyra managed to stand on wobbly legs, her head pounding and her joints screaming out in pain. Jenise stood in front of her, eyes surveying every inch of her body. In Lyra’s weakened state, she couldn’t have resisted, and she certainly wanted to. 

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Lyra said softly; speech was nearly as difficult as standing. Jenise’s eyes flicked to hers, questioningly before returning to the visual inspection. “I am royalty, this is not how we are treated! Where is the decency, and the respect?”

“I have to ask, what perhaps did you think would happen. When you asked for this, I mean,” Jenise stepped around Lyra looking over her back, then down to her feet.

“I asked to be a woman,” Lyra said. “I…thought I would be at court. At the very least.”

“Tea parties, grand balls, mingling with dignitaries in a gown? This is what you had in mind?”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Lyra frowned. “When people of status are taken by an enemy nation they are-”

“You may stop speaking now,” Jenise said, cutting her off. “And I would suggest that you abide.”

“That I abide?” Lyra said suddenly, her voice gaining an upward inflection, emphasizing the offense she took at the statement. “Girl, have you any idea who I am?”

The slap came quickly; the flat of Jenise’s palm crashed against Lyra’s face, dotting her vision with white specks as she stumbled backward, a cry escaping her lips. Lyra’s own hand shot up to the point of impact; she cradled her reddened cheek as the tears began to flow; Jenise looked at her, eyes cold and unsympathetic. Lyra glanced toward the door, eyes wide; her lips moved as if to call for help, but she fell silent, quivering before Jenise.

“I know who you were,” Jenise informed her. There was no trace of amusement on her face as she accepted a bundle of clothing from a guard. She shoved the bundle into Lyra’s arms and waited as she unfolded a light-gray dress; a white apron dropped from the bundle and fell to Lyra’s feet. Lyra stared a the dress incredulously; it was probably knee length with seams up the sides, and a high, rounded collar made from a slightly lighter white material. A servant’s uniform, though a slightly different color from what she would have expected. “This is what you wanted, is it not?”

“I…” Lyra held the servant’s uniform, her eyes wavering as her fingers clenched the material. It was softer than she would have imagined; almost silky to the touch but matte in appearance. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and a queasy feeling made its way into her stomach even as her heart began to beat faster. Her eyes traveled from the material of the dress to Jenise who still regarded her with a cold, emotionless expression. 

“You will wear the uniform, Nulla,” Jenise snapped, her face still betraying little emotion. “Or I shall leave you in this room to ponder it, and I may not return for several days.”

Lyra shifted the garment in her hands, biting her lower lip and suddenly, she paled at the idea of wearing it. In Axock, the capitol of Slose, a man wearing such a thing would be considered almost blasphemous. Men and females, they both had their places, but for him to wear such a thing, especially the uniform of a servant would make him a subject of extreme ridicule.

No. Her. She. She had to think of herself as a woman now. This was what she’d wanted, right? As her skin grew cold and clammy, Jenise’s patience failed her. She cursed and snatched the uniform from a startled Lyra and stormed from the cell, leaving the door open. It wasn’t as if Lyra could go anywhere.

In Jenise’s absence, Lyra collapsed heavily against the wall, allowing her back to slide downward until she rested entirely on the floor with her bare legs sprawled out in front of her. 

The shock of the moment began to recede and then return, enveloping her like a slow wave as the reality of the situation began to cement itself in her mind. What had she done? This was what she’d wanted, since she’d been old enough to look at herself in the mirror, since she’d fully realized her resistance and abhorence to her father’s expectations. That desire to be more like her older sister, Robyn, one that had gotten her in trouble at every juncture. She’d heard of the Orchid, of the Lady Jenwise’s soft spot for those who did not conform to the world’s pre-established gender stereotypes and she knew, she knew that if she could just pass through the border, into Auglire, she would find happiness. Was this happiness, though? She looked down at her ankles, bruised black and blue by the chains; she felt…as if she weren’t a part of this, as if the world around her was fading away, like she wasn’t even a part of her own body. The mistakes she’d made both here and at home weighed heavily on her, forming a weight at the pit of her stomach and causing a significant increase in her already labored breathing. Her chest rose and fell as her head lay against the cold cinderblock, and her eyes closed until finally, she heard footsteps returning. 

“And you did not inform me immediately?” A new woman’s voice demanded. Lyra slowly opened her eyes to see her; thin, imposing, perhaps forty years old with blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. “The Nulla are my responsibility, you know this!”

“I wished to try my hand, as the First Girl instructed,” Jenise shrugged. “Even so, she did give me leave to seek your guidance if…”

“To your feet, Nulla!” The older woman said sharply, reaching down swiftly and striking Lyra on the upper arm with a rigid switch. Lyra flinched, whimpered, and crawled to her feet; her hand was smacked as it instinctively raised to rub the upper arm where the switch had initially struck. “Hands to your sides, Nulla!”

“You would be advised to acknowledge her, Lyra,” Jenise said, quietly eying Lyra. 

“Y…yes Mistress,” Lyra whimpered again, her hands at her sides, head down, and body quivering in the cold of the cell. 

“This one is to be treated as a girl, then?” The woman frowned to Jenise. “A punishment?”

“Her preference,” Jenise replied simply. The woman nodded and turned back to Lyra.

“I shall work under the assumption that you are ignorant of your circumstances, and so I shall explain.” The woman continued. “There are two classes of servant. The first class, are those who deign to serve and those who make a career of it. The second is Nulla; those who have been sentenced to serve as restitution for a crime. You are Nulla, and I am Overseer Bacchus. I oversee the Nulla and their daily duties. Most importantly, I instill the feminine values and keep them in their place. You are Nulla, and therefore, you are my responsibility. You will heed, or you will suffer, am I clear?” 

Lyra gave the slightest hesitation in answering, her parched lips parted and her body quivering just before the switch was brought down once again with lightning speed against her thigh; she shrieked and leaped sideways, stumbling and flailing, desperate to regain her balance. She failed miserably, striking the wall with her shoulder and yelping at the impact as the brick supported her weight long enough for her to stand. 

“Girl, what ails you?” The Overseer demanded. “Can you not exercise dignity under the lash? Stand straight!”

Lyra did her best to regain her feet but found herself struck again by the switch; she yelped, once again, a sob erupting from her lips as she dropped to one knee, her right hand barely supporting her weight and keeping her from crashing into the hard crete floor. For a moment her world consisted of the cadence of her harsh breath, the floor, and the blurred sight of the Overseer’s feet, seen through a pool of budding tears. 

“On your feet!” The Overseer practically screamed, bring Lyra to unsteady feet as her cheeks burned with tears. The Overseer glanced at Jenise. “Where did you get this one?”

“She is sentenced for assault and thievery,” Jenise shrugged as she delivered an obviously practiced line. “As she was assigned her Nulla status she made this request; the First Girl and the High Lady saw no reason to decline.”

The Overseer stared hard at Lyra and then spoke. “Socially, the difference between men and women of Auglire is negligible. You will find, however, that women are held to much higher standards. Whether or not you were prepared for that, is of no consequence now. You may acknowledge me.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Lyra said quickly, flinching, as if she were to be lashed again, but the strike never came; the Overseer nodded to Jenise.

“You are acting as preceptor?” The woman asked Jenise, pointedly. Jenise nodded.

“For now.”

“If this one is to be a woman, even a Nulla, understand that she falls beneath my jurisprudence, and in that, her behavior and mannerisms reflect upon my reputation. Train her well.”

“Overseer Bacchus, might I speak plainly?” Jenise asked; the Overseer raised an eyebrow, but gave a slight nod for Jenise to continue. “Women take pride in the feminine arts, myself included. I would not train this one incorrectly.”

“And what would a Zlitian know of the feminine arts?” There was a slight upward inflection to the Overseer’s voice, causing Jenise to stare hard at her, though she felt the slightest chip in the armor of her resolve. 

“Overseer?” Jenise frowned.

“No matter,” Overseer Bacchus waved her hand dismissively. “See to the ‘girl’.”

“Yes, Overseer,” Jenise said coldly. The Overseer left, leaving Lyra to stare at Jenise in confusion.

“Put the stupid dress on,” Jenise shoved the gray uniform into Lyra’s arms, shaking her head in disgust.

“What just happened?” Lyra asked shakily, pulling the dress over her head and flinching instinctively as Jenise grabbed a handful of fabric at each side and jerked it downward, straightening it and freeing it of wrinkles. 

“Keep to your own,” Jenise glared. “And follow me.”

Lyra kept in step behind Jenise who barely looked back to ensure she was still following and it slowly occurred to her that she was experiencing a familiar fear. Indeed, it hadn’t been hard for this Jenise girl to lull her into a sense of entrapment, and Lyra shuddered at the though. Still, she moved forward, her feet padding softly against the crete flooring as her body moved automatically through a labyrinthine of smooth brick walls polished to a high sheen. Her anxiety rose each time they passed through another doorway, another room, another hallway until finally they ascended a stair, passed through a connecting corridor and ended up in a decrepit looking hall flanked on either side by wooden doors. Jenise led her to one at the end of the, twisted the knob, and thrust it open. The room wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t cramped either. It was perhaps the size of the cell she’d been held in, but it was furnished with a simple bed, a wardrobe, a bedside lamp, and an empty bookshelf. 

“This is an old dormitory,” Jenise explained coldly. “Nulla are housed with the other girls, but you are not quite a girl yet, are you?”

Lyra frowned and then looked to her feet.

“You wish to speak?” Jenise demanded. “Then speak.”

“I…” Lyra’s voice wavered but then gained slightly more confidence. “I am.”

“Explain yourself,” Jenise spat.

“In here,” Lyra said meekly, laying a shaky hand across her heart. 

“We will see,” Jenise snapped. “In the meantime, you will be taught, you will be drilled, and you will learn respect above all things. When and if the First girl, the Overseer, and I determine you are sufficiently trained, you will be given your work assignment under supervision.”

“Work assignment?” Lyra asked weakly, shaking her head in confusion. Jenise maintained her cold gaze.

“We start in an hour, be ready.”

 

***

 

“You should move faster,” Ben said from directly beside Plum. Plum’s eyes twitched to her right; until just now she’d been unaware that he’d been standing beside her this entire time. Or had he moved here from somewhere else? She glance back down at her swollen, torn hands kept occupied with a piece of thick copper wire. Her battered limbs moved automatically, seemingly without the instruction of her mind as fingers wrapped the copper around the rod in a twisted coil, dropped it, and pushed it toward Ben who assembled the next piece and passed it along. Then another, then another, and another. The dull aches and the sharp pains emanating through her skin weren’t from her; they were disembodied sensations. She’d learned to separate herself from them days ago. Still, her eyes stung from the heat and her body tensed at the mere sound of footsteps behind her.

This was her world now; this was all there was – what everything in her life had come to.

I will kill you, Micah Lavoric.

“They expect two hundred pieces. Daily,” Ben said robotically as he snatched another finished coil from her. “Somehow you’ve managed it without being told so far, just barely.”

“Two hundred?” Plum nearly gasped. “H…how?”

The answer didn’t come for several minutes; a seat of heavy boot steps sounded behind them, each footfall violently vibrating the steel grate on which they stood. Plum cringed as the boots passed behind her; she could feel the shadow of the guard as he passed, paused briefly, and then continued. A few seconds later, her ears registered a squeal from perhaps ten feet down the line. Her eyes twitched right and saw the shape of a younger girl, perhaps ten years, being dragged from the line by one of the guards. Maybe it was the same guard. Did it matter?

The action was supplemented by begging and screaming, and then muffled cries that were eventually silenced as the girl was dragged from the line and swiftly replaced with a boy who quickly took up her position.

“We manage,” Ben said quietly in response to her question. “And you should hurry.”

She pushed on, her head pounding and her hands aching as she assembled each piece and passed it to Ben, who would in turn pass it to a boy across from him, and then the piece would disappear down the line. It continued for hours, and hours as another child was dragged from the line, and then another. Her only indicator of time as the massive round window at the front of the room; and from that she could somewhat determine the time of day. As the sky grew darker a whistle sounded and they were led single file away from the assembly line, through a series of hallways, and then left in what a large room filled with long, rusting tables. They took seats at the tables and sat in silence, waiting for something. 

Plum’s eyes once again searched the area; the table in front of her, the room around her, the other prisoners across from her. Each time her mind came to some conclusion, she was jerked back to reality by another person sitting at the table, and her body compressed by those around her as they made room. 

The center of the table was a trough, maybe a foot deep; she could feel her knees banging against it each time she was jostled. The table itself was filthy; bits of dried…something on the rusted and dinged metal surface. She wanted to ask, but the room was dead silent with only the sounds of footsteps and occasional whimpering as another worker was shoved into the table. There were other tables, perhaps a dozen, all the same length, all occupied. How many of them were there? 

Her questions was answered as the table shook momentarily and suddenly, the trough at the center was filled with a thick, grainy liquid. Plum watched it as it filled the trough and bubbled. Before it finished filling, the children around her lurched forward and began to dip their hands in, taking handfuls of the gruel and shoving it into their mouths. With no further prompting, Plum obeyed the command of her empty and aching stomach, thrusting her hands into the gruel and pressing it into her mouth. Handful after handful, the substance had an almost chalky consistency and was completely devoid of flavor. Regardless, she shoveled it down, grateful for every bite, suddenly realizing how hungry she’d been. 

She ate, and ate, nearly choking a few times before a bell was sounded and they were herded from the tables. Plum fell in step behind the others, her tunic covered in the putrid liquid as they were led single file to a barebones sleeping area. The floor was covered in dirt and grime; windows boarded up, if they’d ever led anywhere useful. The beds were more like metal cots, devoid of mattresses, thin but mostly durable fabric secured to the railing. Like a hammock. There were a few dozen of them arranged into rows starting at the back wall and stretching across the long room. 

Plum waded into the quickly-cramping space as it filled with others her age, younger, and a bit older. All were in the same shape or similar to her; filthy faces, shredded and stained clothes, some with a limp in their walk. The other thing they all had in common was their silence. There seemed to be no guards here, no one to enforce the ‘rules’, such as they were, but it was defeat and depression that moved them to silence. So it was that the shuffling of feet and the occasional groan or sob were the only audible sounds, at least at first. Slowly, the sound of murmuring could be heard from the back of the room. 

“Latrine’s this way,” Ben appeared beside her, jerking a thumb in the direction of a doorway in the eastern wall. She followed along behind him, passing rows of beds and silent, defeated children, some of whom were already laying on their sides, expressions blank. 

Eighty six. There were eighty six cots. How many children? Difficult to tell with them coming and going as they were. She continued, following Ben in to the lavatory; he gestured toward a tin trough with several water spigots positioned in intervals.

“The best we can do, for washing,” Ben explained with no apology present in his tone. “Tell me, what turn of luck landed you here?”

“I was betrayed,” Plum said quietly after a brief silence; she twisted the handle of a spigot and allowed filthy brown water to flow until it cleared. She brought her hands to her face, cleansing her hair and allowing the water to drip down her scalp.

“Betrayed?” Ben said with a hint of amusement in his voice as he washed beside her. Several others joined them, though none seemed to be paying attention. “You speak as if you were a soldier in some grand battle.”

“And you speak as a coward,” Plum finished at the trough, turning the spigot off and stepping aside; a young, black-haired boy took her place. “It is a trait that Zlitians are not known for.”

“How did you know I was Zlitian?” Ben frowned as Plum walked past him, toward the latrines. 

“You may not have the pale features,” Plum said, almost dismissively. “But those flecks of red in your eyes are unmistakable. A half-breed, then?”

“Observant,” Ben grumbled. Sage finished with the latrine and sped past Ben again, walking back toward the bay. “Pick any cot you like, but mind who sleeps to your left and right.”

Plum looked to him questioningly, but he gestured toward a cot near the top corner of the room where a girl lay huddled on her cot, legs drawn up against her stomach. She appeared to shiver.

“She is ill, then?” Plum frowned, looking to Bed, who nodded. “Someone ought help her, then.”

“And whom would you choose for such a task?” Ben questioned. “You’ll catch her illness, and then you’ll be condemned alongside her.”

“They would kill her for falling ill?” Plum turned to him, wide-eyed.

“If she cannot work, then she is of no value to them,” Ben’s tone was grim, though his face didn’t betray it. “She will die, though you may consider doing it yourself before they get to her.”

“Are you suggesting…” Plum shuddered at what she thought he was hinting at, but didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she looked at him, horrified. He shrugged.

“See her hands? Those gloves she wears? You could use them. You let guards do it, they’ll burn her, and the gloves, likely. You should act quickly.”

Plum reflexively looked down a her hands, cracked and blistered. From her palm, a broken blister oozed and she felt the throbbing pain that her conversation with Ben had momentarily taken away from her. The girl was wearing a pair of worn leather gloves, obtained from…well…who knew where, and Plum felt a twinge of jealousy. Whoever this girl was, she wouldn’t need those gloves, especially if she was just going to die. It would be so easy. She could easily strangle her, probably. Those gloves would make Plum’s life that much easier. She shook her head, and then looked away from the girl, to Ben.

“What is she called?” Plum demanded, drawing a look of confusion from Ben.

“What?” He frowned, looking from Plum, to the girl on the cot, and then back to Plum.

“Her name,” Plum repeated. “What name is she called by?”

“I think it hardly matters-”

“It does,” Plum said, adamantly. “She is more than a pair of gloves.”

“You won’t be thinking such thoughts after a few weeks here,” Ben argued. “If you survive that long.”

“I should like to think that the others would think of me as a person, should I fall ill.”

“They won’t,” Ben shook his head. “They’ll kill you, faster than anything.”

“And yet they haven’t killed her.”

“Give it time,” Ben assured her. “You’ll want to be the one; I see your hands.”

Another reminder of her hands. 

“Give me her name,” Plum repeated, standing her ground even as her hands ached and her body screamed for relief. 

“And what’s this, then?” A new voice, belonging to a brunette girl slightly older than Plum. The girl stepped in front of her, blocking Plum’s view. She was perhaps an inch taller; an old scar ran down her left cheek and her eyes were as hard as stone. “You’ve set your sights on those gloves, then?”

“I think not,” Plum said coldly, her mouth drawn into a straight line as she eyed the new girl.

“Plum,” Ben said. “Allow me to introduce Hendi. Hendi, this is-”

“I don’t care,” Hendi said, glaring at Plum. “Keep to your own; those gloves are mine.”

“I didn’t plan on having them,” Plum assured you. “I have no stomach for murder.”

Hendi laughed. “You seek to put yourself above this place?” Hendi leaned down slightly, giving a grim smile as she looked into Plum’s eyes. “We shall see how long that lasts.”

Hendi walked away, shaking her head; perhaps in another situation she might have stormed off, laughing hysterically, but there was no place for laughter here. Plum closed her eyes and then opened them, turning to Ben once again.

“Her name?” Plum asked again.

“If you must know-”

“I must.”

“Her name is Tara,” Ben said pointedly, watching Plum closely. “If you must know, she was the daughter of some low ranking lord. If she can die here, then so will you.”

“Her family does not search for her?”

“Would they think to search for her here?” Ben shrugged. “An abandoned factory district in an abandoned town? Auglire is vast.”

“Abandoned town?” Plum said, nearly breathless. “We’re not in Klocby?”

“Perhaps you’re dumber than I first thought,” Ben shook his head and walked away. 

 

***

 

Miah moved with a fluidity unseen outside of her guild; her feet would be barely visible to the outside eye and her clock fluttered behind her, sleek with rain as she ran along the wall. The spires of Axock rose around her, sillouetes in the distance; imposing structures that signaled certain death to all those who dared to oppose Lord Lavoric’s tyrannical rule.

This particular wall ran along the outer perimeter of the second plate; there being a total of six plates, stacked atop one another, each one progressively smaller than the last. As Miah understood it, the city of Axock had once consisted of only the bottom; a typical city that had fallen into ruin as the population grew to bursting and the upper plates were added to provide relief to the wealthy. The outer perimeter of this plate was not shielded from the rain, and Miah suspected that she would need to run at least three miles inward to seek that manner of shelter. She didn’t mind the rain, though; it was more a help than a hinderance. 

As she circumnavigated the perimeter, the spires to her left transitioned to low residential rooftops, all in differing but dark shades with either slate or metal roofs. While the upper levels of Axock were more uniform, the lower levels had been built with convenience in mind. Slate, metal, and wood slanted rooftops, tower cathedrals to the Order of Vaesha, winding streets with lackluster storefronts rank with the smell of urine and feces. Miah saw none of it. Stopping momentarily, she reached beneath the hood of her deep crimson cloak to adjust the blindfold that covered ruined eyes. Even without sight, she could ‘see’. The wind, the subtle noises around her, the reverberation of her footsteps, all of it served to create an image around her, one that she could follow. But still, some things managed to come as a surprise. Her hand shot beneath her clock, fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of the consecrated blade.

“I nearly ended your life, messenger,” She said, hand relaxing slightly. She couldn’t see him, but she knew well what he would look like. Like her, he would be cloaked, but in a sleek black, black as night. It was a ‘he’; she could tell that much. There was no answer to her remark; she hadn’t expected one. Instead, the messenger delivered his designated missive.

“The High Lady commands that you abandon your current objective and proceed with your next task,” The messenger said. Miah raised an eyebrow. “Will there be a response?”

“Tell the High Lady I acknowledge the order,” Miah said, her mouth drawn into a straight line as she dropped a single silver coin into the messenger’s waiting hand. Then, he was gone.

She perched on the wall, allowing the rain to pelt her as she contemplated; the primary objective had been to assassinate Lord Lavoric’s youngest son, for reasons that were unclear to her. What had changed? The second objective was a response to a call for aid – not nearly as interesting. 

Without so much as a breath, Miah lept silently from the wall, her cloak fluttering in the wind and rain behind her as she passed the high rooftop of the cathedral and landed softly between two buildings. Her feet touched smooth, uneven cobblestones, water running between and through the cracks like hundreds of tiny rivers and their tributaries. The sound of rain pounding against thatched, wood, and shingled rooftops guided her forward and in one swift motion, she flipped her cloak inside out. While the outside was a dull red, the underside was a ragged, sack-cloth brown with artificial cuts, holes, and simulated wear. She turned a corner, passing beneath the ominous glow of a gas lantern affixed to an iron pole and crossed onto a short bridge overlooking one of the city’s many canals. If she had the gift of sight, she would have seen that the area was dimly lit by the white gas lights spaced every ten feet, each flickering rapidly in the wind, the glass surrounding the flame obscured by rapidly increasing raindrops. 

She wrapped her cloak around her, tighter to conceal the twin dagger handles on each side of her leather bandolier, and adopted a slight hunch to convey a substandard posture that more than matched the demographic she attempted to imitate. Though her sight was nonexistent, the rain, the wind, and the air surrounding her told her everything she needed to know about her surroundings. The sound of rain before her betrayed the existence of the waist-high concrete railing along a wood-floored bridge. The warmth of the gas lamps overhead, the existence of buildings, tall and dark, squat and crooked. A mish mash of structures on either side of her, all connected by winding streets, dark alleyways, and tight bridges. She had no sight, but she could see it, she could feel it, and that was good enough.

With a single fluid motion, she shot across the bridge and ducked into an alleyway, vanishing into the darkness until she finally took a swift left and emerged onto another street flanked on either side by tall gas lamps, each towering wrought iron pole culminating in a barely detectable heat source, and each one emitting the slightest, smallest hiss of gas through a copper line, ignited at the tempest. Harsh raindrops battered the fabric of her hood, causing a roar around her that was nearly insurmountable as she tried to focus on the environment. 

Through the mounting noise distortion, she made out the sound of bootsteps thundering against the wet cobblestones just one street over. She counted: One, two, three, four, five, six. Six soldiers. Six sets of boots. The smell of iron drifted through the rain; the sure sign that they were armed with carbine rifles. She refrained from the urge to mutter a curse and instead ducked around another corner, taking up position between two ragged and broken beggars huddled beneath an awning. 

“This here’s our spot,” The beggar to her right said gruffly, gravel in his throat. The man to her left said nothing. 

“Still yourself,” Miah said calmly. “I’ll be off before your next breath.”

“I’s breathing right now and you’s ain’t gone,” The man’s scowl was evident in his voice. “If you don’t scaddle right quick, I’ll bring the guards down on you!”

“What is your name, beggar?” Miah asked calmly. The man grunted and shook his head.

“‘Tis no business of yours, tis not!” He nearly shouted. He then turned, facing the oncoming guards. “Aye, I’ll see you in a cell before I let you cut into my profits.”

“I assure you, beggar, I come not to your corner to raise my cup.”

“His name is Malcolm,” The man to her left said. Miah turned to him, cocking her head.

“And you are?” She asked hurriedly, keenly aware of the bootsteps of soldiers drawing nearer. 

“Someone with sense,” The man said curtly. Miah nodded, thanked the man, and then turned to Malcom, uttering something that might have passed for an apology before drawing a rune-infused blade from her waistband and slamming it into Malcom’s gut. The blade sang silently in her head, as it always did when she used it to snuff out a life; the handle glowed, and she swiftly covered it with the folds of her cloak as the memories started. She could have blocked the memories; none in her order would have blamed her given the circumstances, but she allowed them to enter as the runes of the blade glowed a hot white and the singing of the blade twisted and turned into a vision of the man, Malcom’s life. She saw him as a small child, suckling on his mother’s teet; as a boy playing in the fields outside a small farming community in Slose. A young man taking on an apprenticeship in his father’s bakery. His first love, his father’s tragic death, a mother who sold her body to keep the roof over their heads. The bakery taken by debt collectors, the death of his mother by her own hand. Malcom set adrift, not by his own hand, but by a twist of fate. She closed her eyes as the man’s breath left his body, silently, and the soldiers passed without incident. She waited until the bootsteps were a fair distance away, and then dropped Malcolm’s body to the cobblestones. A moment later, it vanished. 

“A waste of a human being, he was,” The other man said. Miah, keeping her head down and beneath her hood, turned to him.

“His name was Malcom,” She said, cooly. “He was a baker.”

“And a waste all the same,” The man said. “What do you seek?’

“You are no beggar,” Miah said accusingly, tightening the grip on her dagger. “Who are you?”

“I am a beggar as he was,” The man jabbed a finger toward the pile of ragged clothes soaking against the cobblestones. “As he was a baker, I was a soldier, and then I was not.”

“By your will?”

“By fate’s,” The man gestured toward his left arm, or at least what should have been his left arm; it was a mere stump that ended just above the elbow. “I was an expert swordsman, and a marksman atop that. Now I beg for bread, and I’m a damn sight worse at it than he was.”

Miah stood there, beneath the awning as she briefly contemplated the man’s words. Finally, she spoke in return.

“I seek a man,” She said. The former soldier raised an eyebrow.

“Information is dear…” The man ended the statement with an upward inflection that implied expectation.

“And I can pay,” She replied simply.

“Coin does me little,” He practically barked. Miah nodded.

“What would you have, then?”

“I would have you take me out of Slose,” The man said. “Away from this blasted country.”

“Difficult,” Miah nodded. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Then we have a deal.” 

Miah reached beneath her cloak and withdrew a small, white flower, holding it out to the confused soldier. “Your name, soldier?”

“Dagot,” The man said, eyeing the flower. “What’s this then?”

“To hold me to my word,” She said. “Take the flower to remind me.”

“What sort of flower is this?” The man asked, turning it over in his hands.

“An Orchid.”