Chapter Three: Wine and Bread

Ilyria moved quickly down the alleyway, trying to sidestep the worst of the dirt, trying not to think about what type of muck might have passed through it. Her feet, soft from years of walking on marble floors or gently manicured lawns, were soon bleeding from the sharp cobblestones of the street.

She felt foolish when one alleyway led into another and then another until she realized that these alleyways were the streets of the city of Idixat. How had she paid so little attention riding through the city on her horse or in a carriage?

She also felt stupid carrying the bag of wine and bread. The bread was at least a day old and probably too hard for her to even hazard a bite without breaking a tooth. As for the bottle of wine … she shook her head. She brought wine but no shoes. If she was Haris’ widow’s only hope for justice, then the widow would not have much comfort.

Haris’ widow! She tried to recall the name of the pretty, inane woman Haris had married. In truth, she had spent little time with Haris’ wife or even her own godchild. She had always been too busy prying secrets of the merchant craft from Haris since her own mother denied her any training. Still, she knew where Haris’ mansion was.

The way was much longer on foot than on horseback. Especially barefoot. By the time she reached the door of Haris’ mansion, her feet were numb with pain, and splattered black with mud and other filth.

Early morning sunlight bathed the pristine white porch of Haris’ home and Ilyria thought nothing of climbing the stairs as she had so many times before. She paused before ringing the bell, deciding to knock instead. She did not want to wake the entire household, who were perhaps still dreaming innocently, not yet knowing of Haris’ murder. Better she should ask one of the servants to show her in to wait for Haris’ wife to wake.

The door was answered after her third tentative knock. A tall man with the tattooed markings of an Orenian answered the door. He looked down at her and his nose lifted. Ilyria was conscious that it was no longer just her feet that were dirty. Nonetheless, she pulled herself upright. She was Ilyria Agrio, daughter of Daria. Even if she didn’t look it at that moment. She cleared her throat.

“I am here for Mistress,” she paused, “Gavara.”

“Get away from here, boy. Who do you think you are?” He said, closing the door and clipping one of Ilyria’s toes painfully.

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, holding out her hands to try to stop the door’s unyielding path, “I’m …” But she could not go on, she dropped her hands. She was trying to run away, to hide from her mother, from Dirk. She could not go around telling people who she was. The door slammed in her face. “I’m a friend,” she said to the closed door.

At least he had thought her a boy. But what would she do now? She eyed the row of shoes on the shoe rack outside the front door with envy. If only she had remembered shoes for her poor aching feet! Something caught her eye. The gleam of soft kid leather boots such as only one man she knew wore. A terrifying possibility presented itself to her.

No, she breathed, that cannot be. She knew a way to find out though. She knew where Haris and his wife’s bedroom chambers were and that they could be reached from the drains that ran down the far side of the building. This had been his family home for generations and she and Haris had shimmied down and back up those drains enough nights that the route was ingrained in her muscle’s memories.

Hoping that the household would stay silent and resting for a while longer, she slipped through the gate that led to the courtyards at the rear. The drains were as she recalled, though a little more worn. Leaving the bag on the ground, she urged her tired, bleeding feet forward, trying to bear most of the weight of her ascent in her arms. At Haris’ bedchamber window, she stepped onto the balcony.

Though the drapes had been drawn, there was enough of a sliver for her to see more than she had ever wanted. Haris’ widow atop Dirk’s prone form, her hands entwined in his thick black chest hair. Her groans reached Ilyria through the window. As she watched, Dirk lifted one beringed hand and brought it down hard on Mistress Gavara’s rump. She squealed with happiness and Ilyria felt ill.

There would be no refuge for her here.

She slipped down the drain, landing with a crash on her knees, her hands and feet both bleeding. There were the sounds of stirring from inside the house. She retrieved the bag and limped her way around the house and out the gate. At the stairs she stopped, looking around. The street was yet deserted so she darted toward where the shoes stood and grabbed Dirk’s beloved boots.

It was the least he owed her, she thought, putting them on over her battered feet.

She walked as the city began to wake, for a time amazed by the sounds of lives she had never imagined. Dogs barked at a rooster that stood on a rickety fenced and crowed its wake-up call. A small child staggered out of a house, carrying an earthenware pot bigger than he was. The smell of roasting cinnamon nuts made her mouth water and she thought about trying to gnaw on her loaf of bread. Gradually, the narrow streets of houses gave way to broader spaces where market traders were setting up their stalls. Each stall seemed to compete with the next for the brightness of the fabric tented over it, or the smell of incense that wafted from within. Traders hummed their market tunes as they laid out their wares: swathes of fabric from finely woven linens to exotic filigreed silks; long necklaces wrought from the precious metals of Itoulp; dates and moonfruit; dragonseed that snapped at her as she passed. Ilyria took it all in hungrily. She wished she could have been one of the merchants to bring these wonders to the market. She tripped over a box fallen from a trader’s table and went sprawling into the dirt. Something chittered and rattled against the sides of the box.

“Idiot boy!” A trader scooped up the box and glared at her. Then his eyes narrowed as he took her in. He stepped closer and Ilyria edged backwards, the wounds on her hands newly opened and leaving red trails in the sand. “I have not seen you here before,” said the man, “Why I don’t think you …”

Ilyria did not wait around, she struggled up and turned and fled, her bag and its contents banging painfully against her hip. She kept running until she had passed all the market stalls and turned into a quiet street. There she stopped and tried to catch her breath, one hand on the wall, the other on her knees as she bent over almost double. Dizzy with fright.

Then she felt a hand on her waist, and she was hauled roughly backwards. Her arms flailed as her unseen assailant put his hand over her mouth. Her back had to arch uncomfortably to accommodate his large belly. Another man appeared in her line of vision. He had a heavy beard, and his head was wrapped in fabric in much the same fashion as hers.

“Check his pockets,” he snapped at the man holding her.

The grip on her mouth loosened as the man behind her grunted and began rummaging in her pockets. He hauled out the jewels she had packed, and the bearded man stepped forward to take them. His eyes shone in the reflected light of the jewels.

“These are good quality,” he said, looking more closely at her, “Where did you …”

“Master,” interrupted the other man, his hands now back in her empty pockets had continued their rummaging journey toward her most private parts. His master shot him a look of irritation but he went on, “Master, this is no boy. It’s a girl.”

“A girl!” said the bearded man. He pocketed the jewels and stepped in closer and pulled the fabric from her head and her hair spilled out. He laughed softly, “A pretty girl can be worth more than jewels in these parts if she is … intact.”

Ilyria took advantage of their distraction and lashed out with her foot at the bearded man’s shin. The man holding her had loosened his grip just enough for her to twist around. She dug one hand in her bag and pulled out the bottle of wine which she brought down hard on his head. His eyes rolled back comically, and he staggered and then fell forward, his belly cushioning the force of his landing.  

The second man circled her, holding his arms out as if she were a wild beast that needed corralling. “Softly, softly,” he cooed to her, “There’s nowhere for you to go from here.” Then he leaped forward and Ilyria reached again into her bag, pulling out the stale loaf of bread and smacking him across the face with it as his hands were about to make contact with her. It was just enough to throw him off balance and he too went down, holding his cheek and looking in astonishment at the unlikely weapon with which he had been hit.

Ilyria didn’t wait, she threw down the bag, thanking the gods for her foresight in bringing the bread and wine and started off down the street. She didn’t get far before she barreled into a perfumed, jiggling mound.