and other
such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved
ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and
turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street.
“You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have them
killed and spare honest men the stench.”
“Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at
her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came
together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve
messages to deliver.”
“Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up
the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public
fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”
In between her frenetic exercise sessions and
throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a
map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.
Likely leading her into a trap.
“Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another
word.
She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her
shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his
friends.
The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full
of terror.
Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like
the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color.
And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of
a sorcerous aura.
Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate
concerns at the moment.
She turned the corner and walked down the street
lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment.
The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into
a slaver’s inventory.
Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of
the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample
handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof,
and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the
skylights.
No one ever looked up.
She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and
crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square
surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed
brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the
place looked deserted.
Save for the four men in black leather jerkins
waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron
shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they
planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting
pits.
She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined
their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina
was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself
to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across
her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s
harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic
servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong
backs for the mines.
Well, she would inflict far more serious
disappointments upon them before the day was done.
Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through
one of the skylights. The warehouse below was deserted, and stored
massive heaps of bulging sacks, lashed in place by rope nets. After
a moment’s examination, Caina realized that the sacks held rice.
The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit and olives and
many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal of
rice.
Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.
Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one
of the piles, a puff of dust rising from her boots. She scrambled
down the net to the floor, and examined the knots for a moment.
Then she drew her short sword and went to work, cutting ropes here
and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, and after a
moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the
piles.
She was going to have to run very quickly, and she
did not want it slowing her down.
Then she went out the front door, making sure to
leave it open behind her.
Caina walked the remainder
such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved
ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and
turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street.
“You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have them
killed and spare honest men the stench.”
“Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at
her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came
together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve
messages to deliver.”
“Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up
the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public
fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”
In between her frenetic exercise sessions and
throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a
map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.
Likely leading her into a trap.
“Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another
word.
She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her
shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his
friends.
The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full
of terror.
Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like
the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color.
And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of
a sorcerous aura.
Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate
concerns at the moment.
She turned the corner and walked down the street
lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment.
The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into
a slaver’s inventory.
Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of
the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample
handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof,
and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the
skylights.
No one ever looked up.
She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and
crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square
surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed
brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the
place looked deserted.
Save for the four men in black leather jerkins
waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron
shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they
planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting
pits.
She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined
their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina
was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself
to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across
her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s
harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic
servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong
backs for the mines.
Well, she would inflict far more serious
disappointments upon them before the day was done.
Caina crawled back along the roof and peered through
one of the skylights. The warehouse below was deserted, and stored
massive heaps of bulging sacks, lashed in place by rope nets. After
a moment’s examination, Caina realized that the sacks held rice.
The plantations of Istarinmul grew coffee and fruit and olives and
many other things, but the Istarish themselves ate a great deal of
rice.
Enough rice to pile it in sacks twenty feet high.
Caina dropped through the skylight and landed on one
of the piles, a puff of dust rising from her boots. She scrambled
down the net to the floor, and examined the knots for a moment.
Then she drew her short sword and went to work, cutting ropes here
and there. She stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, and after a
moment’s thought hid her heavy pack behind another one of the
piles.
She was going to have to run very quickly, and she
did not want it slowing her down.
Then she went out the front door, making sure to
leave it open behind her.
Caina walked the remainder
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