‘You’d take me for a whore?’ she whispered, righteous anger rising.
‘I wouldn’t take
you
at any price!’ His laughter was coarse, ugly. He dug in a pocket. ‘Here. Now move on, trollop, and count yourself lucky.’ He tossed a couple of small coins at her.
They lay at Serrah’s feet, in the muck, unregarded. She stared at him, darkening with rage.
‘A whore?’
she repeated, barely audible.
‘And a bloody awful one at that. Now why don’t you -’ Something about her manner aroused his suspicion. He gave her closer scrutiny. ‘Do I know you?’
He might have. They could once have been comrades in arms, in what she already thought of as her old life. But she knew he didn’t mean it that way, and didn’t answer.
Frowning, he reached into his tunic. His eyes never left her. He took out a flat, square object that fitted in his palm. It resembled a plain hand mirror.
She recognised it instantly. Her fists bunched.
The glamour was light-activated. Serrah knew its reflective side would be blank for a moment, then turn milky. After that, whatever information it held would be displayed.
She could guess what that was.
The militiaman glanced down and his expression confirmed it. His features stiffened. He fixed her coldly and made to speak.
She kicked him in the crotch, as hard as she could.
His face expressed surprise, shock then pain in rapid succession. He let out an agonised yelp and doubled over. The glamour slipped from his grasp.
Striking that blow liberated Serrah’s fury. Her chaotic thoughts, her disordered feelings, the weight of her fear; all of it found a focus. She set upon him.
Frenzied, she took swings at his jaw, connecting hard enough to sting her fists. She hurled punches at his chest and stomach, booted his shins and ankles viciously. Little of it had anything to do with what she had been taught, or learned in combat. It was an onslaught, a venting, and it was ungoverned.
At first, her stunned victim didn’t do much more than take the battering. Then he overcame his stupefaction and the beating turned into a struggle, centring on his attempt to draw his sword. Shielding himself with a raised arm, he got the blade half out of its sheath. She seized his wrist and gripped it with a strength that belied her wasted appearance. After a moment of wrestling they were mired in a stalemate.
Serrah broke it by delivering a solid head-butt to his brow.
The impact sent a stab of agony through her own forehead, but she was less hurt than him. He cried out and stumbled backwards, letting go of the sword. She hung on to the weapon as it came free of its scabbard. Using the heavy handguard like a knuckle-duster, she cracked him several times across the head. He went down, insensible.
She was breathing hard and shaking. Bending to his unconscious form, her instinct was to finish him. She put the blade to his throat, then hesitated. That small quiet voice had its say again. Whatever else she might be, Serrah wasn’t a murderer. Not in cold blood. It hadn’t come to that yet. She lowered the sword.
The groaning militiaman carried a dagger, and she took that, too. She stole his scabbard and belt, and clipped it around her waist, tightening it considerably to make up for their difference in girth. After vacillating for a tenth of a minute, she slashed the strings of his purse. As she stuffed it into her pocket she thought how eroded her ethics had become in so short a time. That struck her as funny somehow and she felt like laughing. But she couldn’t be sure she’d ever stop. So she took deep, slow breaths to steady herself, and the urge passed.
As she pulled away, she trod on something. It was the glamour he’d dropped, face down in the dirt. She knelt and picked it up. Turning it over, she saw what she expected.
The image seemed to float just above the mirror-like surface, three-dimensional, crystal clear. It was Serrah, head and shoulders. Her left profile was displayed. That gradually melted into full face. Then her right profile, and back again to left. It was more than a likeness; it was a miniature version of herself, turning slowly to show every feature to best advantage.
Across the bottom of her facsimile, fiery letters spelt out
Fugitive
, followed by the lies
Murder
and
Treason
.
She remembered the image-taking. It had occurred during her induction into the Council for Internal Security. New recruits had to present themselves to the Council’s sorcerer clerks, who cast the spell that captured their images for the records division. The session was brisk, business-like, and the clerks shared an officious, unsmiling demeanour. None of the recruits minded that; being accepted into the elite had intoxicated them. She was amazed to recall that it had happened just a couple of years ago. It felt like an age.
Serrah was transfixed by her likeness. She could have been looking at a stranger. Someone robust, spirited, with the prospect of a bright future. An insider, reaping the benefits of the empire’s largess. A woman unaware of the coming storm.
Murder. Treason.
The full significance of the glamour hit her. How likely was it that she’d chanced on the only militiaman who happened to be carrying her image? It must have been issued to all the law keepers, which meant hundreds,
thousands
of them in circulation, confirming her status on the wanted list. The authorities didn’t do this for every felon, not by a long shot. It was far too costly.
Treason.
She took the thing and beat it against the cobblestones. It gave off tiny, bright blue sparks. The image flickered, dulled, went out. Serrah continued pounding until cracks appeared. All at once the glamour crumbled into a sandy, reddish dust. A faint luminescence suffused it for a few seconds, then died. Serrah knew it was a futile gesture, but it made her feel a bit better.
Rising, she absently rubbed her dusty hand against her breeches, leaving cherry-coloured streaks on the cheap fabric. Juices were flowing now, her senses were sharpening. She’d lingered here too long. She had to get away.
Shockingly, a sound rang out, a rhythmic caterwauling, loud and harsh. The alley lit up behind her. Serrah spun around.
Through clenched teeth she hissed,
‘Shit.’
She’d forgotten about the militiaman’s alarum glamour, hadn’t checked for his medallion. Now he’d activated it. Or it had triggered itself, if it was that expensive a spell.
The man was still flat on his back, blood trickling from his nose and a corner of his mouth, though he was beginning to stir. No wonder, with the deafening
whoop-whoop-whoop
of the alert. And from a point high on his chest, a beam of concentrated light lanced out to punch the sky. She looked up and saw that, far above, the shaft fanned into a disc. Within it, a wolf’s head was taking shape, the universally recognised distress signal. Soon it would be visible over half the city. Then this quarter would be lousy with militia, paladins, government agents, citizens’ vigilante groups and the gods knew who else.
Serrah took flight, moving as fast as her aching limbs allowed. From alley to lane, from lane back to bustling streets. In her rush she made no distinction between reality and illusion. Flesh or apparition, she barged through regardless, and to hell with the protocol about damaging other people’s glamours. The aggrieved threw curses, shook fists, but nobody pursued her. She looked too dangerous.
After a while she slowed and regained her breath. She began to be surreptitious, using quieter byways and double-backs. But she was filled with more determination than at any time in the last two days.
A plan of sorts had formed.
Once the river had snaked its way through the city’s viscera it opened its mouth to take a bite out of the ocean. The resultant chunk formed Merakasa’s harbour, and it took Serrah a little over two hours to get there.