1st of Vhalar 720
Demda had spent precisely nineteen days in Dimza’s company before she realized he had no intention to impart anything of to her. By then, he had gotten sick of the debaucheries and pleasures on offer in the city, and perhaps even her own playfully frigid company. His feet had gotten the restless itch to move on again, and to begin business anew so that he could repeat the process, stacking his nels up one bundle by another. She learned of his departure from a parting bit of gossip on the lips of someone near the southern Outskirts, where he often was laid up, and where Demda had set up her own tent. And so, that was that.
Of course, being in the Outskirts, and not far from the slums of the southwestern portion that laid outside the walls, she was wary of running afoul of any of Qais’ former allies. If any were indeed remaining. She wasn’t entirely sure if she had to worry about them if they were dead. Perhaps whoever moved into the vaccuum would want her scalp as a message to anyone thinking they’d betray them. So it was with any of those petty slumlords. They had to make an example to prop themselves up, buying time until the knife was sharpened to stab into their back.
It hardly mattered that there was no personal connection between them and the trophy claimed. The only thing that mattered to them was that they had a collection of ears and scalps to warn away anyone that might even consider twisting the knife that would end their life.
The paranoia got to her in time. Enough that she felt the need to shear her hair. She took one of her blades, and began cutting, roughly hewing the locks of red without a care toward preserving them. The orange locks of hair fell to the dusty ground beneath her tent, her panic spurred by the sudden absence of protection that Dimza had provided while she was in his company. She cut it down to neck length, just enough that it could be covered without worry that a strand would fall out of place. Then she took her black-woolen headcloth and wrapped it around her head.
She took the last bit of water she’d paid for, and washed away the dirt and what few cosmetics she had applied the nights before. Dimza had been very particular about her appearance while on his arm, when normally it was her inclination to go without any decoration. So, clear of complexion and shorter of hair, she gathered up those discarded locks, and stuffed them into her domain bag, where only she’d be able to find them.
That done, she used the last of the water on her thorned horse, letting it drink a little (It didn’t need much, in truth.). She had some extra cloth wrappings that she used to bind her breasts. Luckily, she was small enough that she could do so to the point of flattening them, until they barely showed. It was painful all the same, but she had endured worse discomforts for the sake of survival.
That done, she began dressing in some street clothes that she’d picked up the afternoon before last. A simple linen shirt, off white, with a green, loose-fitting vest. A pair of simple camel hide trousers, dyed brown she wore on her legs. And over her feet she wore the running boots that she’d acquired last cycle.
All that settled, she went into the Outskirts, to suss out and find what information she could, about the state of the slums, the city itself, and just in general try to find out if she was being spoken of in her old neighborhood.
Every gaze, every stray word that even resembled her name caused Demda to raise her hackles. She was definitely nursing a paranoid streak in recent days, and it wasn’t helped that she was in the exact vicinity of the Outskirts that she’d been hunted and almost run down by Qais’ men.
She tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, to pass as anyone else. And she might’ve been succeeding, for all she knew, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching her. The streets were shaded by a canopy overhead, as the lattices of construction work rose over and around the huts and tenements of the slums. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, besides the smells of filth and sounds of misery. It was quaint, and she did enjoy the freedom of walking alone in the streets.
She made her way down familiar avenues, past hucksters and charlatans trying to catch her eye. She knew well enough not to make contact either verbally or visually. Once they had locked gazes with a mark, most of the slumlord merchants were adept at getting them to buy something. They wouldn’t leave you alone until you did.
The nearest place she knew of was the old watering hole where Qais used to hang out with his men. She wanted to get in close to there, to see if anyone was still talking about the girl who’d killed the local slumlord. To her surprise, nobody really seemed to care. There were no mentions of Qais, Demda, or anyone thereabouts. Perhaps he wasn’t as important as he made himself sound to Demda, when they were together.
Perhaps the people following her hadn’t been trying to kill her afterall? Who really knew. Even so, she was determined not to get her guard down. She entered the watering hole, the dirty tavern where Qais used to brag to his friends, and made for the bar.
At the bar, the man behind it gave her a glance, ”Lemon-mulled whiskey.” She said to him without a second’s hesitation.
He shrugged, and went to fetch the spices. After mixing it up for her, he funneled it into a glass. On second glance, Demda thought the place wasn’t half bad. They had her favorite drink, nice shade, and a cool breeze filtering in through the open rafters. It even almost felt like home…
”Well, well, well… If it isn’t the gal of the hour.” A voice called from ten feet behind her. Demda ignored it. She was supposed to be passing for a man.
”I’d recognize that shade o’red hair anywhere. Demda!?”
She ground her teeth together, then slowly turned in her seat. Demda looked at the man calling to her. It was one of Qais’ associates. Immortals damn it. ”Hello Point.” She said, reluctantly.
He wore a very light outfit, with flowing sleeves, and a brown vest. His trousers didn’t look too different from her own camel hide pants. He wore a pair of sandals on his feet. His brown, sun-bleached hair fell in a dirty mop over his forehead. ”Well I didn’t recognize you at first. Are you trying to hide or somefing?”
Demda shook her head, as the tender tapped her shoulder and slid the glass of whiskey over to her. She took it, and drank it in one gulp.
”Uhm… No Point. Why is anyone looking for me?”
”No sirree, and I’d know. You know… A lot happened after Qais died. Nobody knew where to find you…” Point began, sliding into the seat next to Demda as he lowered his voice, ”They said you might’ve gotten nabbed and sold into slavery. I thought to meself, that’d be a damned shame. After all you’ve been through to end up someone’s property again… Glad to see that ain’t the case.”
The way he spoke didn’t put her well at ease, and she began pouring herself another. Point continued to talk. ”Now, others said that it must’ve been you what offed Qais… But then I’m thinking… nah. Demda wouldn’t so much as pluck the wings off a horse fly.”
Demda took another sip of her whiskey, feeling slightly ill at the line of conversation was taking. If one could call it that. ”Listen, Point…”
Point shook his head, ”Nah, Qais had a lot of enemies. Must’ve been one o’them. But then, I’m hearing from this little old lady that lives across the way…”
Demda finished her whiskey, and almost choked on it as he said it. The lady she’d confessed her crime to? What had she said?
”Said that little old gal of Qais was the one what killed him. With some poisoned salad.” He guffawed lightly, though his voice was hushed as he related the story. ”Now, I knew she was full of it. So where you been Demda, and what’re you doing back in a dusty shithole like this?”
Demda took another shot of whiskey, after the tender mercifully filled her up again. ”I was in a caravan. Working as a scout. After Qais died, I…”
”Say no more bout Qais. Nobody really cares about him nor asks anymore questions about him. I made sure of that… But speaking of which… Maybe you can help me out if you have connections with the caravan masters…”
Demda quirked an eyebrow, as if to ask what kind of help he needed. Point, as usual, needed little prodding other than that. ”I need some folk transported out of here, some folk that pay me well to get their documents settled… you know how I do? Yeah you do…. So now that I hear you went on caravan runs… maybe you return the favor of my discretion for some help in kind?”
”Yeah…” Demda said, taking the whiskey, her voice getting hoarse with every second, ”Of course… I’m going to school in fact, to learn to run my own caravan, but I can put in a word for your friends with the caravan master when he shows up again.”
”Yeah, I’m sure you will… We former shackle slaves need to stick together, am I right? Look after each others interests…”
The rest of the whiskey travelled its way down to her stomach, filling her with a sense of bitter dread. She knew this wouldn’t be the end of it, and Point would make use of her as a contact until her favors dried up like the disappearance of a small oasis.
