Breach of Contract, Part II

The Square was massive, as big as a hundred country farms. It stretched for three full urban districts. It wasn't properly a square, of course, but was in fact the wide, cleared space between two long avenues running all the way to the Auditorio. It was usually active, but once a month, during the Liming, the whole length of it was crammed with much of Terin's permanent population and many overwhelmed and shocked travellers. Those that weren't packed into the Square would be lounging in the city's big, open central park, the Savannah Round. There, the officially sanctioned and somewhat more reserved festival was taking place.

Musicians and bands hammered, whistled, chimed, hooted, banged and strummed a mad cacophony of tunes, grinding beats, and lively melodies. Each seemed to devour its neighbour, in an attempt to draw admirers. Competition for audiences during the Liming could often make or break a musician's repuation and land prestigious concerts.

The scents of a thousand varieties of food, bubbling, broiling, baking and hanging, all in various states of preparedness, assaulted her already overtaxed senses. Vendors and merchants sold every conceivable produce in an incomprehensible variety of forms from hastily assembled shacks and stalls lining the sides of the Square. Taken together these formed a semi-permanent wall of ramshackle booths, and the areas in between became mazes of temporary streets crammed end to end with people.

The only reason the interior of the Square wasn't totally jammed with vendors was because tables took up whatever space that wasn't continuously occupied by people, which was little enough. Gambling posts collected together like schools of fish, and legitimate as well as doubtful games were being played by people from every class but the most wealthy. Colourful prizes were strung on cords above the games' proprietors. Would-be sorcerers and people of obscure professions offered to tell fortunes with Arikam boards and cups of suspiciously pungent tea. An occasional patrol of Public Peacekeepers muscled their way through the crowd, their jagged obsidian swords prominently displayed.

No sane Soldier or Zeare's agent would dare try to bring order to the Square during the Liming. If violence broke out, and it rarely did, the revellers would deal with it swiftly enough, using their own more direct form of justice. Soon, anyway, Juva would start, and any single men and women that remained would pair off and find a place to stay for the night, the only night of the month when innkeepers threw open their doors. Indeed, most of them were busy themselves. Along with the suffocating humidity and heat, normally the effect of this barely controlled madness would be irresistibly intoxicating, and Makri had only reached the edge of the Square. But she felt numbed.

By the time she'd reached Tunar's Fried SeaGreens, no fewer than eight hopefuls had propositioned her. Several of them were quite drunk, and one or two might have caught her attention any other night. The last was only barely a man, and a full head shorter than Makri. She ruffled his hair and sent him on his way. He'd seemed gravely insulted. She hoped his young honour wasn't badly bruised.

Tunar was happy to see her. "Makri!", the wide, broad-shouldered, grey-haired man shouted as she approached, "And here I was thinking you'd be off by now. Many people've been by, asking after you."

She forced a smile for her old friend. "No, Tunar, no such luck."

An elegant older woman dressed in an expensive sarong, whose sharp brown face Makri vaguely recognized from somewhere or other, stepped up and touched her arm. The fine-featured woman smiled suggestively, and gave her a furtive sideways glance.

Makri considered it. Not up to it. "No, I'm not in the mood tonight, Miss, um, but thank-you. Maybe next month." The woman bowed respectfully and worldessly withdrew, dancing away to the rhythm of one of the countless songs in the Square's exuberant cacophony. For the life of her, Makri couldn't remember the woman's name. For all she knew, the woman might have been a former employer.

"What would be eating, Makri? For you, anything."

Tunar nudged his wife, who was stirring the pot of soup. The wizened cook looked up and laughed. "Just you remember that Tunar is busy tonight, Makri."

"Well, I'll leave him to you, Syra. That is, if you can handle so much man. I hear many stories about you, Tunar."

Tunar guffawed. "Yes, well, that might be so, if it weren't for my poor ol' back. What'll you have? Tonight, I think our best salmon and seagreens. Tell me your troubles, Makri. At your age, you should be gettin' ready for Juva, not talking to old men and wearing such a serious face."

She took the plate of food he offered and reached for her purse. Tunar waved his hand dismissively. He leaned close and mumbled, "Makri, I hear you've found employment."

"Of a sort."

"Not all I hear is good. I would know what troubles you."

But a sudden rush of customers interrupted their conversation. As he dealt with them, Makri finished her food and thanked Syra.

She didn't need any more criticism. Before Tunar could return, she pushed through the crowds and started the journey home, grim and depressed.

So she would spend the night alone.

If she was very lucky, she might even get some sleep.

The two porters finally left the wine in the cellar, after lingering in the cool darkness for far longer than they should. The trap door slammed shut and a bolt snapped into place.

Soon there was the sound of scratching, as if an army of mice were assaulting one of the coarse pottery storage vessels. There was no shortage of vermin in the Pag's storeroom, but no mouse could have overturned the winecask. It jerked to one side, rolled to the other side of the chamber and settled into inanimacy once again.

Silence returned to the dark basement.

Without warning, the lid of the vessel popped open, and a figure emerged. "Aagh!", it moaned softly, banging its head on the low ceiling. It peeled off a layer of wrapping designed to absorb the not unpleasant odour of the immensely expensive imported wine that until recently filled the container. Makri had been loathe to dump it into the city drains, but the bound and gagged wineseller's apprentice would quickly be discovered, and she certainly couldn't do this drunk. Thankfully, at least, the cask had been delivered to the right place.

Stooping, she hunted in the pitch blackness for the ladder and trap door leading out of the cellar. It was bolted shut from the outside.

She cursed, and waited.

And waited.

Over an hour passed.

The serving girl was halfway down the ladder before she saw Makri poised and ready. She sucked in breath to scream; Makri's hand lashed out like a snake's strike, and the girl thudded to the ground. Makri slipped the mauve Clan sash from the girl's shoulder, pinned it to her own robe, then bound the girl's hands and feet and put her just out of sight.

Climbing out of the cellar and bolting the door, she found herself in the kitchens. A half-filled jug of wine sat on a tray with several cups, waiting to be brought to one of the Pags, perhaps even the Gern himself. Makri examined herself in the reflection of the exquisite cylindrical silver winejug, making sure there were no wine stains on her linen servant's costume. After she had verified this and pulled back her hair, she picked up the tray and walked down the adjoining hallway.

She stopped. A guard, a vicious-looking Yarakheen mercenary wearing captain's feathers, turned a corner and saw her. He frowned. She looked down, casting her eyes aside in the manner of a bondservant. He stepped toward her.

"You. Your name?" His Terini was broken, but she could understand him well enough despite his accent.

"Yemenarina," Makri said, trying to sound sufficiently humble.

"You are newly employed?"

She nodded, not raising her eyes.

He grunted, still suspicious. Surely, there were enough house-staff in an estate this big for her to pass cursory inspection?

"You are very beautiful, Yamanari." He looked her up and down. He stepped forward and lifted the wine jug, sniffing the contents. He grinned, and his sharpened teeth were bared. His breath was foul.

Wonderful. This Yarakheen animal must be used to taking advantage of all the terrified serving women. Just her luck, Makri thought, that she had to encounter him and not one more interested in the serving boys. Ah yes, she remembered, the Yarakheen didn't tolerate such proclivities. Well, there was recourse.

Makri smiled alluringly and looked finally into his eyes. They radiated more rank boredom and thoughtless lust than suspicion. She set down her tray and bowed, making sure she displayed herself as she kneeled.

"Thank-you", she mumbled.

The guard grunted and stepped closer.

"I do not know you. Yet."

He raised his hand to touch her hair.

Without warning, her knee slammed into his groin. As he doubled over she landed a powerful blow to his gut. He fell to the ground, shocked, gasping for air. Makri pulled out his long obsidian dagger and slammed the hilt against his head. He moaned and, with a sad grunt, went limp.

That had almost been too easy, Makri thought with some amusement. She glanced quickly down the hallway and dragged the huge, muscle-bound body back to the kitchen. She dumped it unceremoniously into the cellar. It landed with a thud.

She had no idea of the layout of the house. She guessed that the Gern's office should be near the front of the building, where the reception rooms would be. Someone was surely expecting the wine on her tray, and would come looking for it. She had to find the office, and soon.