by B. K. Boes
Prestis took a deep breath. “I don’t know if we’ll tell her that,” he said. “The survival rate of adults is about eight out of ten. With the infants, it’s been universally successful. He’s still young. The dose is still much smaller than it would be for an adult. It’s likely he’ll survive.”
“Prestis, you have to tell her,” Imrah said.
“No, I don’t.” Prestis set his jaw. “Imrah, this isn’t a case like yours or Illya’s. This is… an exchange.”
“What?”
“We believe her master-husband facilitates meetings in a private room in his tavern. Meetings where assassins are hired and traitors give away important information.”
Imrah stared at Prestis as realization took hold. “You want to barter her son’s life in exchange for spying on these meetings?”
Prestis nodded. “More or less.”
“And if she says no, but still wants to save her son?”
“I’m afraid we can’t help her.” Prestis avoided looking directly at Imrah.
The statement knocked the air out of her. “That’s not right,” she said.
“No. It’s not. But it’s where we are.”
“How can you say that?” Imrah took a step away from him. “Do it yourself. I don’t want any part in this.”
“Imrah, I can’t. How am I, a man, supposed to get close enough to a slave-wife to have a conversation in private? She’d be flogged or killed, and who knows what they’d do with me. You’re a woman. You can get close without any consequences.”
Imrah shook her head. This wasn’t what she’d agreed to do.
“Please, Imrah. If she says yes, then we all win. These are my orders. We need that information.” Prestis sighed in frustration. “This program, the umro, the marro… it isn’t free. It’s going to benefit us in the long run, but my superiors need short-term results as well. Do you want it all to stop? When the next woman wants to save her son, do you want to be the one to tell her we can’t do it anymore?”
“That’s unfair,” Imrah said.
“It’s the truth. I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“And what if we’re unsuccessful? Will the program end?”
“Not right away, but eventually, we’ll need to find ways to use slave-wives loyal to our cause to gain information.”
Imrah bit her lower lip. If she agreed, everything could be fine. The boy would be saved, and Eikon would have their information. If she refused, the program she’d risked her life for, the program that could make a dent in Adikea’s army, could eventually be shut down.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” Prestis said. He tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
“You should have told me when you stopped me in the Middle Sector.”
“I’m sorry.” Prestis tried again to touch her, this time placing a hand on each shoulder. “Imrah. I truly am sorry.”
She looked into his eyes, searching, and found genuine regret there. It took a bit of the sting off her situation, but she was still angry. “This wasn’t your doing?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I tried to convince them otherwise, but I failed. Still, this information is important. I couldn’t refuse.”
“Fine,” she said, this time a little more gently. “I guess I can understand. I don’t like it, but it’s the way the world works.”
“Let’s go, then.” Prestis dropped his hands and led her out of the storage house and into the streets. Up ahead, the sky still glowed yellow against the black night.
When they stepped out of an alleyway into what was officially Bazz Harbor, it became more crowded. Imrah kept stride with Prestis, keeping close. Men, both foreign and Adikean, including young slave-son warriors fresh out of the canyons, roamed the harbor’s streets. They passed a building with four women outside wearing almost nothing. Of course, the warriors steered clear, but foreigners did not. Imrah looked away, her stomach sick. She remembered the dread that plagued her in the Training House when she was first brought to Adikea. There were three ratings a woman could earn during training. Central Sector, Middle Sector, Lower Sector. Only women sold in the Lower Sector could be bought by Brothel Masters. It had been every woman’s greatest fear, the only thing that made many of them strive in training to become better potential slave-wives.
Up ahead, a thin iron door swung open and a pair of drunken Adikean men stumbled out. They were Lower Sector men, middle-aged. Prestis caught the door before it shut, and one of the men bumped into Imrah’s shoulder. He looked at her, squinting. He smelled like a strange mixture of the sea and cheap liquor, salty and rancid.
“A woman merchant. Ha!” he mumbled. “Damn Eikonians.” He shook his head and continued on his way, using his friend for support as he walked. Imrah went wide-eyed when she caught a glimpse of the inside of the tavern as the door shut. There were a lot of Adikean warriors in there.
“Come on.” Prestis tugged on her arm, and they passed the tavern door and slipped into an alleyway. It was a thin, dark passage. Prestis stopped near a back doorway to the tavern. “She comes out this way every once in a while. Now, we wait.”
Imrah leaned on the sandstone wall behind her, watching the door. She held her hand up, wound exposed to the air. It felt better than having the material of her tunic rubbing against it. “This will scar,” she said. “I almost feel bad for brushing oil across that man’s eyes.”
“Don’t. He deserved it.”
Imrah smiled. “I said almost.”
He shook his head, and a laugh escaped his lips. Then he reached over and took her hand. “Here,” he said. “Let me help.” He blew softly on the wound, the moving air cooling her skin just a bit. “Does that feel better?”
“I—”
The door opened, and Prestis dropped her hand. A woman came outside, carrying a bucket. Her face was plain. Her thin, black hair was pulled too tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her nose was a little crooked, and her face was covered in freckles. Her slave-wife dress didn’t compliment her stocky build and broad shoulders, but there was a resilience to her that Imrah recognized. The woman wiped her forehead with one arm before she dumped dirty water from the bucket into the alley.
“Excuse me,” Prestis said.
The woman looked up and gasped, eyes wide, and dropped the bucket. She turned around and grabbed the door handle.
“Wait,” Imrah said, stepping forward. “We just want to talk.”
She turned her head, leaving one hand on the handle. “Who are you? Why are you lurking in my master-husband’s alley?”
“We want to talk to you,” Imrah said.
“To me?” Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
“What’s your name?” Imrah said as she took another step forward.
“Tipta,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“That’s a beautiful name. Is it Sozian?” Imrah asked.
“I don’t know.” Tipta let her hand drop from the handle and turned to face them. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Imrah paused. She doesn’t know? Then it hit her. She looked back at Prestis. He didn’t seem to understand the problem. “Tipta, where are you from?”
Tipta narrowed her eyes. “I’ve lived in the Lower Sector all my life,” she said. “But I’m a proper slave-wife. So was my mother, and hers before that. No whores in my bloodline.” Tipta lifted her chin. “My master-husband won’t sell me to you for a night, if that’s what you’re after.”
She’s a Generational. Imrah took a step back. “No, we… um. Directions. We need directions.”
“What?” Prestis said, alarmed. “No, we need to talk to you, Tipta. About something very important. About your son.”
Imrah grabbed hold of Prestis’ arm, looked him in the eye, and gave a firm shake of her head. “This is the wrong woman. You’ve made a mistake,” she said.
“What about my son?” Tipta said. “He’s about to go to the canyo
ns. Not for sale, either.”
Prestis’ eyebrows knit together as Imrah stepped back again. “Exactly,” he said, still looking at Imrah. He gave her an urgent nod. Then, in a low whisper, “Imrah, now’s not the time to get scared. Talk to her.”
Imrah wanted to scream in her frustration. She’s indoctrinated. She tried to warn Prestis without making Tipta any more suspicious. “She’s the wrong woman,” she said again.
“I don’t have time for this,” Tipta said. “I have work to do.” She turned back toward the door and pulled it open a crack before Prestis started talking again. Imrah tugged on his arm, but he shrugged her off.
“Your son can be saved,” he said.
Imrah’s breath caught in her throat.
Tipta peered over her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
“I can help you save your son,” Prestis said, despite the fact Imrah was shaking her head and tugging on his cloak. In frustration, he pulled away from Imrah and focused on Tipta. “In exchange for a little information.”
Tipta’s eyes went wide. She flung the door open and darted inside. Imrah could hear her call for her master-husband before the door shut.
“We have to go,” Imrah said, trying desperately not to yell, to keep from drawing attention. “Do you even know what you’ve done?”
“Do you know?” Prestis said. “I needed you to talk to her!”
“She’s a Generational, Prestis! Didn’t you hear? She was born into this. Her mother was born into this. Possibly going back several generations.” Imrah balled her fists at her sides and nervously looked at the door.
“I don’t understand why that would matter,” Prestis said.
“She believes the Adikean propaganda, Prestis! Didn’t you hear her call her master-husband? We have to go!” Imrah took his hand in hers and tried to pull him out of the alley. He was still resisting her when the doorway slammed open.
“There!” Tipta came out and pointed at them. A man was behind her, and behind him, two Adikean warriors. “There are the foreigners that wanted me to betray you!”
Prestis stood for a moment, his mouth hanging open.
“Run,” Imrah said. The Adikean warriors were drunk, but when they stepped forward, there was murder in their eyes. “Run!” Imrah shouted.
This time Prestis didn’t hesitate. The pair of them burst into the street, the Adikeans behind them. Imrah ran with everything she had. Prestis was right beside her, their feet pounding against the cobblestones, weaving in and out of the crowd together. Prestis looked over his shoulder as they continued to run.
“They’re still behind us,” he said. “I don’t understand what happened.”
Imrah looked, too. Matted locks, bare-chested, tattooed, and daggers drawn, the warriors weren’t hard to miss. One of them yelled to another warrior on the side of the street who was walking in the opposite direction. The other Adikean warrior nodded, searched the crowd, and joined the two that were after them. One of them pointed in their direction, and all three came together like a pack of wolves focused on their prey.
Imrah’s heartbeat began to throb in her ears as they turned a corner. “If we make it to the warehouse, duck inside, maybe they’ll think we kept running. It’s a good place to hide.”
“We have to get ahead of them enough that they won’t see us enter the building,” Prestis said.
Imrah increased her speed, as did Prestis. She put everything she had into every step, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The streets were still busy, and she and Prestis had to weave between the merchants. Prestis darted into another alley, and Imrah followed. They were near the storage house now, and the street was less crowded. They came upon the iron door. Imrah looked back again. The Adikean warriors sprinted into the street and paused. This street wasn’t well lit, like the others, and she and Prestis were in the shadows. Prestis threw the heavy door open and shoved Imrah inside.
“Go. Hide. I’ll draw them away,” Prestis said as he closed the door behind her, pulling a lock out of his cloak.
“No!” Imrah stumbled inside and then turned back toward the door. She heard the lock on the outside clank shut. “Prestis!”
Footsteps padded away. Imrah felt sick to her stomach. She was breathing too hard, too fast, and she was dizzy. Metal scraped against metal on the other side of the door. Imrah took a step forward, thinking Prestis had come back, but then she heard an unfamiliar voice.
“I think one of them went in here,” it said.
“No, I saw someone running away,” another said.
“Look! There he is!”
The clinking of metal stopped, and more footsteps followed. And then all was quiet. Tears welled as Imrah waited.
They’ll catch Prestis. That thought alone made the tears spill over onto her cheeks. And then what? How will I get back to the Dakkan Household with the door locked from the outside?
Shaking, Imrah felt her way in the dark, farther into the storage house, to a place where stacked trunks walled her in on three sides. Now that she wasn’t being chased through the city, the throbbing of the burn on her arm seemed worse than ever. She sank to the ground in the pitch black of the storage house. Trembling. Afraid. And utterly alone.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Imrah
Lower Sector
The City of Sydor, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Imrah must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes again, she was lying in a ball on the cool dirt floor of the storage house. But it wasn’t pitch black anymore. A faint light, like that of a candle, glowed from somewhere beyond the stacks of trunks and woven baskets and grain sacks. Imrah held her breath.
They found me. They’ve caught Prestis, and now they’re going to catch me.
She patted down her cloak, looking for the pocket where she’d stuck the pepper oil. She got it out and held the bottle in her trembling hands. She scooted into the corner. Imrah couldn’t stand, as she was taller than the stack of trunks around her. She was frozen in place, and yet at the same time her entire body screamed at her to bolt. Her heart was beating so rapidly, so hard, it felt as if her chest might explode.
The light was coming closer.
He’ll find me soon. Is there only one? Or are there more? Will they torture me?
Imrah focused on the cool glass of the bottle in her hands. She thought of Lapuro. Illya. The women they’d brought into all of this. The slave-wives who just wanted to save their children.
Will I betray them if I’m tortured?
That possibility frightened her even more than the torture itself. She uncorked the bottle.
If I drink the oil, will it kill me quickly?
Imrah imagined the thick liquid burning her mouth, eating through the inside of her throat. Sometimes a story would spread of a slave-wife swallowing the stuff, trying to get away from the nightmare she’d been dragged into. From what she understood, the throat burned and swelled to the point of suffocation.
If I’m dead, I can’t talk. I can’t betray my friends.
Imrah made the decision. If that light came around the corner, if she was going to be found, she would end it on her terms. Not theirs.
Maybe I’ll see Anakai in the afterlife. He’s probably dead by now. The thought was a small comfort. I can hold him. Sing to him. Apologize for not saving him, too.
The yellow light crept around the corner of the stacks concealing her. A small cry escaped her lips as she brought the bottle closer to her mouth. The fear of pain caused a moment’s hesitation. She closed her eyes, forced her hands to move, and—
“Imrah!”
The voice startled her. She looked up, and there stood Prestis. She looked back to the bottle, eyes now wide. Something within her snapped, and she threw the bottle away from her as though it were on fire. It clattered against the trunks and hit the ground, oil trickling from its mouth. Prestis came to her side, kneeling beside her and wrapping his arms
around her. Her body shook so violently, not even his steady hand could keep her still.
“It’s all right,” Prestis said. “They’re gone. I’m here.”
Imrah took a deep breath to calm herself. At first, Prestis’ closeness was a comfort, but it quickly spurred her anger. With a steadier hand, she pushed him away and got to her feet using the trunks for support.
“Imrah—”
“No.” Imrah held up her hand for him to stop talking. “No, Prestis. Don’t. That woman was a Generational. We could have been killed.”
“I didn’t know,” Prestis said. “I thought… I thought every slave-wife would want their sons in a safer place.”
“Then you didn’t think at all!” Imrah shouted. Her voice bounced off the high ceiling, and she flinched as it came back at her in an echo. She lowered her voice. “Tipta grew up here. Not only that, her mother, her grandmother grew up in the Lower Sector. She has no identity outside of this nightmare. Her master-husband is her savior. Her way out of a whorehouse.”
Prestis ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I shouldn’t have risked your life like that.”
“Risk isn’t the problem. It’s risk for no reason,” Imrah said.
“How was I supposed to know?” Prestis said.
Imrah shook her head in frustration. “You could have asked questions instead of assuming you knew everything.”
Prestis stared at her for a moment. “You’re right,” he finally said.
“There should be protections. Processes to train women up,” Imrah said. “We need to be confident we can bring women into this without needlessly endangering people.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Prestis asked.
“I don’t know,” Imrah said. “Not yet.”
Prestis licked his lips and looked away, into the darkness. “Maybe you should step back from all of this. I… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“No,” Imrah said. “It’s far too late for that. I’ll decide when I want to stop.”