by Edun, Terah
“That was why the crowd gloried in his death as a rightful passage. It righted the wrong he had done,” her father had said in his grave voice.
Sara had understood her father’s explanation. The death hadn’t bothered her as much as the crowd’s adulation. But even while she stood in her leather boots on the cobblestones stained red with the blood of past executions, it hadn’t been long before she became fascinated by the blood and the sport that went into the killing of one single man.
As far as killings went, that one was tame. But it was the first time that she had seen a person killed alongside her father. The first time Sara had seen life’s blood flow from someone’s veins. The first time she’d seen a head separated from a body. But it wasn’t the last. Because fighting and blood was in her veins. She was a Fairchild, and, more importantly, she was the daughter of Vincent Fairchild, one of the empire’s premier commanders and the man responsible for the most wins in the imperial games for the last fifty years. Before her father had been a commander in the army, he had been a gladiator without peer. One whose tenacity in the ring, ability to defeat the most fierce foe, and calmness when faced with death had beguiled even the most jaded spectator.
As Sara flew down the streets of Sandrin, she thought it was ironic. Ironic that her father, so feared in the arena, had gone placidly to death. Had not resisted the empress’s men as he was led to slaughter.
Then she laughed cruelly. “But that was my father. Honorable in the gladiatorial games and honorable in his death. But there was no honor in why he died. There is no honor in desertion.”
She nearly spit the last word out as she rushed by the meat pie vendor so fast that she didn’t see it. She smelled the pies but couldn’t stop. She ran. She ran to escape her past and to be removed from the present. She ignored the shouts of cart vendors, of a guard whose horse she startled, and of the urchins still playing in the streets. She ran with tears streaming down her face until she got to her doorstep on a quiet street. Breathing hard, Sara looked down at the pail of water that her mother had left at the door for the stray dogs. She knew she must look a fright. But she couldn’t let her mother see her tears. Every day, Sara defended her father’s memory against foes seen and unseen. She fought in duels in alleys and kept her chin high in the streets. No one could tell her why her father had deserted his empress’s cause. She had the scary feeling that even if they could, nothing they said would ease the pain of a daughter whose father had fallen in her eyes.
But still she did her best to keep those worries from her mother’s doorstep. Never letting her know what people whispered behind their backs. Sara made sure to never let her mother get a hint that her daughter was floundering. Because under Sara’s fierce exterior hardened by battle scars and training, was a young woman facing the harsh backlash of a father’s damned legacy alone. She would never let her mother down. Not like her father had.
Sara took a deep breath, splashed water on her face, and wiped away the wetness on her sleeve. Then she opened the door to the smell of baking bread and the sounds of a home where laughter was long gone.
She quickly shut the door behind her and took off her new scimitar to lean it against the wall. Next she took the knife, dagger, and baton from their secure holds on her waist and legs. Those she placed on the ‘weapons table’ her mother had set up. It was the only house rule her mother had in regards to battle magic and the family tendency to fight: No weapons carried to the dinner table. She did, however, allow a long blade in the kitchen for defense and gave Sara her blessing to keep her favorite blades in her room.
“Sara?” called her mother, “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” Sara called as she hastily grabbed a cloth from the chair to rub her hands.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Coming, Ma,” muttered Sara.
She hastily trotted into kitchen, where her mother had set up a rickety wooden table on top of the upside-down washing tub. Seeing the set-up made Sara sad. Not for herself, but for her mother. They had come a long way from their days as the family of the preeminent gladiator and then commander of imperial forces. When her father was executed, the magistrate’s court had stripped her mother of all the land he held in his name as well as his pension from his years as a gladiator. All as further punishment for his unnamed crime.
Like being dead wasn’t enough, Sara thought miserably.
Whatever her father had done to be charged with desertion, then execution, had far-reaching consequences until this day. Her father had died months ago. But Sara and her mother still suffered daily for his crimes. From the torment Sara endured on the streets to the fact that her mother couldn’t retain a job as a wind dancer anymore. None of the companies would hire her. Doors were shut in their face and none had reopened with time.
Her mother looked up from where she knelt praying on the floor. A smile lit up her beautiful face. Smiling herself, Sara walked over to kiss her on the cheek.
“Did you get the meat pies?” whispered her mother.
Sara froze. “I—oh no, I forgot, Mother. I got caught up in some things.”
“Games with your friends?” her mother said happily. She desperately wanted Sara to have a normal life. A normal sense of identity. But that had long since gone.
“Yes, with my friends, Ma,” Sara said as she leaned back against the wall. She didn’t want to lie. But she didn’t want to tell her the truth, either.
My friends deserted me the moment my family lost prominence, Sara thought bitterly, Every last one of them at the fighters’ school won’t give me a nod or speak to me anymore.
Sara knew that wasn’t entirely fair. After all, it was she that avoided the gladiatorial halls after her father’s execution but neither had they made an attempt to see her outside of the school walls. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of her former friends in months. It stung.
Her mother nodded, then moved over to sit on the bench. She patted the space beside her for Sara to seat herself and they ate a dinner of peas and fresh-caught fish in silence.
As she finished her meal, Sara asked politely, “The bread is for the morning sales?”
Her mother nodded. “The baker was kind enough to let me fill some orders for him on the wharf in the morning. It should be a good day. I can get five to ten shillings for that. If I give him two shillings for acquiring the permit, we can keep the rest.”
Sara didn’t say anything to that. Five or ten shillings would make a difference in whether or not they kept a roof over their head. But it would only stretch so far.
Sara nodded. “May I be excused?”
“Yes,” said her mother, “but one moment, Sara.”
Sara looked at her mother patiently.
“I don’t want you out on the streets. Getting into fights. It’s not good for you.”
“I wasn’t in a fight.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Sara Fairchild,” her mother said. “Your father tried the same thing. I could see through him just as I can see through you now.”
“Well, Father lied about a lot of things,” Sara snapped as she stood up abruptly and rushed away.
Only the quiet gasp of her mother behind her halted her retreat. The greatest fighter in Sandrin was barely able to control the emotions that rushed through her. Only her family could get her this worked up with just a conversation.
Sara laughed bitterly. Only my mother could ever make me retreat in a battle.
Slowly she breathed out and unclenched her fists.
Turning, Sara said, “That was wrong of me, Mother. I’m sorry.”
Her mother shook her head. “I just want you to be safe, Sara.”
“I am safe. I’m the best fighter in this city. I tested out of all the grade levels at the fighter’s academy and I’ve never been bested in a duel.”
Her mother bit her lip as she looked at Sara wistfully. “Your father said the very same thing to me when we started courting.”
Sara stared back at her. “What did you say t
o him then?”
Her mother whispered the words to her: “That I’d never forgive myself if he died before I did.”
Sara felt a tumult of emotions rise up in her chest.
Her mother shook her head sadly. “He made me a promise then and there to end the fights. He knew how much our life together meant to me. That’s why he became a commander in the empress’s army. He was supposed to be safe. With hundreds of soldiers between him and his fiercest opponent. Instead, he became his own worst enemy.”
There was nothing Sara could say to that. It was true.
But she knew what her mother wanted to hear.
“I’ll be careful. I’ll be safe. No more fights,” she whispered to her mother.
Her mother nodded her head in thanks.
Sara cleared her throat and said a sentence it pained her to say. “Tomorrow I’m going to the fisherman’s district. To see if I can find a job as a fishwife.”
Hope and sorrow warred in her mother’s eyes. Sara was the best fighter in the city. She could best anyone she came up against. Just like her father. But because of her father she was barred from entering purse-winning tournaments or even fighting in the gladiatorial games. For too long she had tried to scrounge at the card tables for easy pickings. Now, they had no choice. She might have won forty shillings from Simon Codfield tonight, but he’d barely had ten in his pocket. The rest he’d promised on ‘credit.’ She learned to never trust credit; it was bloody hard to collect, and besides, dead men paid no fines.
Now she and her mother were close to starving and every bit of money she was able to get was going to rent. Sara had no choice. She wouldn’t take to stealing coins. She wouldn’t. Weapons from a duel was fair play. But taking another man’s purse was not. So she needed to do something to keep them fed. If that meant a Fairchild working in the fishing docks, so be it. They looked at each other—in accordance for once.
“Goodnight, Mother,” Sara said quietly.
“Goodnight, dear,” her mother replied.
Sara went to the door and collected her weapons and the bucket of water from outside. She need to clean and polish all of them before she went to bed tonight. After trudging up the rickety ladder where her room in the loft was, she sat down on her small bed and tugged off her boots one by one. Then she carefully took each weapon and cleaned it of blood, polished it and sheathed it for the night. Only after the weapons were clean did Sara tend to herself. As she climbed back down the ladder, she had an easy view of what passed as a kitchen nook for them. It was really all one room with a small recess for a cooking pot and then her mother’s ‘room’ cordoned off with a string and cord. But it was home, and Sara smiled to see a steaming kettle in the hot coals. On the bench next to the kettle of steaming water was some lavender soap.
Tossing out the bloody water from her weapons cleaning, Sara quickly scrubbed down the bucket with lye and put the scented soap and hot water into the tub for a wash-down. The scented soap was a luxury. It was one of the few luxuries they had, and Sara knew it was from the last of her mother’s stash. She’d given it to Sara as a way of making amends. Her mother didn’t like confrontation. Sara didn’t like confrontation with her mother. Anyone else she’d confront and rip to shreds gladly. But not her mother. She stood in the kitchen as she cleaned her body of the dust, the dirt, and the few flakes of blood that had managed to land on her skin. Then Sara dressed, tossed out the dirty bathwater, and knocked on the wall next to her mother’s private space to give her a silent hug. Nothing needed to be said between them.
All was forgiven.
That night as Sara curled up in her blankets, she heard chittering coming from above her head.
Turning to her side, she called out, “Come here, you blasted ball of fur.”
She waited for a moment.
“Chrimrale, here now. I know you’ve been fed already. Mother may dislike you, but she wouldn’t let you starve,” grumbled Sara.
The next moment a light ball of gray fur, almost impossible to see in the darkness, landed on the blankets near her hand. It quickly skittered up to her chin and curled into a ball in the curve of her neck.
“That’s better,” muttered Sara as she dozed off.
That night Sara dreamed about what it would be like to walk onto the fishermen’s wharf and beg for a job. She knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Chapter 3
The day dawned with the loud squawks of the feral chickens outside. Sara heard them in her dreams long before she roused from her bed. After five minutes she couldn’t take it anymore. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up, tense, in her bed. Chrimrale was already gone before she opened her eyes. She knew she wasn’t late for the open call at the fisheries. That happened at dawn. The cold in the air and the lack of the rooster’s crows told her the sun’s rays hadn’t broken the darkness covering the sky yet. Those feral fowls were diseased mangy beasts that prowled the street like a pack of wolves, pecking any feet that ventured close, and generally making a racket when they thought they could get away with it.
But they were singularly good at one thing. Telling time.
When you couldn’t afford a sundial or a mage’s water clock, you had to depend on your internal clock or that blasted rooster that crowed at the first blush of dawn like clockwork. Sara suspected he was the only reason that the neighbors that complained about them constantly hadn’t caught all of them and wrung their diseased little necks. She knew her mom despised the hens, as well.
She quickly snatched on her trousers and tunic with the boots coming on right after. Standing, she patted her pocket to make sure the slip was still there. But there was no rustle of paper through cloth. She quickly stuck her hand in to check. Then Sara groaned aloud while looking around. Of all the things to go wrong this morning, losing her work permit hadn’t been on the list. She knew it was on a little slip of parchment paper. She tore apart her room to find it. She tossed her straw-filled mattress on the floor up against the wall first, then she searched the smelly pile of laundry that had such a strong odor that she wrinkled her nose while she held each piece of clothing up to shake it for any bits of paper to fall out. Quite a few things fell, none of them parchment. Desperation began to set in. She started looking in the corners of the room. Twenty minutes had passed before her eye spotted a crumpled blue garment on the edge of the mattress.
And Sara remembered. She had worn that linen dress once and only once. When she’d gone to the magistrate’s court a week prior to register as an itinerant laborer—a person free to work in different menial occupations throughout the city. Diving for it, she snatched the offending garment off the floor and shook it harshly. She hated dresses. With a passion. They were useless for riding, dangerous in sword-fighting, and more complicated than a double-action crossbow when she was trying to dress quickly.
“Found it!” she said triumphantly as she picked up the paper that had fluttered to the ground. Strapping on her knife and dagger, she jumped straight from the loft to the ground floor.
“Sara Jane Fairchild!” was her mother’s screech as Sara raced out the door.
“Sorry, Ma, I’m late!”
“I don’t care if the hounds of hell are on your tail—” was all Sara heard before she shut the front door hastily and raced into the streets. She felt freedom. Freedom from her mother, their small apartment, and the weight of memories. Slowing down at the corner, she grimaced at the lack of weight on her back. She was used to having her sword strapped there. Her father had given her the sword, imbued with the gift to grow with its owner, a few years ago. But city ordinances prohibited swords in certain parts of the city and the fisherman’s wharf was one of them. Why, she had no idea. But she didn’t want to be kicked off of the job on her first day because of it. So she only carried two weapons instead of three.
Checking the security of the knife at her waist and the dagger at her thigh, Sara waded into the early morning crowd. It was still dark, but she could see the sun’s rays begin to peek over the
tops of buildings as she walked by. Beggars were already setting up shop on the busiest of street corners. Away from the routes of the city watchmen, those corners were prime territory. Only the earliest of risers or the fiercest could claim them. Because what you did, you tried your best not to annoy the city watchmen too much. She’d known a man thrown in jail cell with no food and dirty water for two days, all for annoying a merchant who called the city watch. He’d been told that if caught a second time, he’d lose an ear. Sara considered that lucky. You could work without an ear. Thieves lost their fingers.
She walked by the baker where the scent of bread already wafted in the air, then she changed directions to cut through the meat market. Next to the baker’s district, the meat market was one long street where all of the butchers displayed their wares. Before her eyes, wooden doors were pushed back to reveal small box butcheries with enough room for a cutting board and all the meat for the day being arrayed on the high table behind the owners. She passed plucked ducks with their heads still attached, a whole leg of lamb ready for spices, and a man whose blood-free stall specialized in fertilized duck eggs. There was something here for everyone.
But Sara hadn’t come to shop. And she certainly didn’t love a leisurely stroll through a street that smelled like raw meat and had hordes of flies at all times. This just happened to be the fastest way she knew how to get to the fisherman’s wharf without ducking through the jeweler’s market. She avoided the jeweler’s market because it came with its own set of problems that weren’t sensory-related. She didn’t mind fancy baubles; what she did mind were the muscle heads that guarded each shop, challenging her to a duel every time they spotted the famous Fairchild daughter.