Serrah could have been a wraith floating through the drab crowds and gutter stenches. But even where abnormality was common, many shrank away from the wild look of her. She was heedless. Because a notion that had been drifting like fog in her brain had crystallised and she knew what she needed.
A weapon.
The marvel was that she hadn’t felt the lack before. Two days since her rescuers had made her give up her sword prior to scaling the wall of the redoubt, and only now did she notice the want. The small, quiet voice of what might have been sanity urged her to rectify the deficiency.
She looked around,
really
looked, and studied the current of humanity. Naturally, just about everybody carried at least one weapon. Serrah had little doubt she could take what she wanted from any of them, despite her injuries.
Then she spotted him.
Militiamen invariably patrolled in pairs, especially in a ghetto district. This one was just leaving his partner. Perhaps to take a short walk to a watch station, or to make his way to some off-duty pursuit. He was the taller and by far the strongest looking of the two. That was why she chose him. It was the same kind of contrariness that made people who hated heights go to the edge in high places. In her physical state she should have picked a civilian. But she was spoiling for a fight with authority.
Old instincts took over, a legacy of her training and experience. Slipping into predatory mode, she stalked him.
Wherever he was going, it was with purpose. He moved swiftly, elbowing through the crowd, obliging those in his path to step aside. His manner was haughty, cock of the walk, and he drew glances that mixed deference with contempt. Serrah followed at a distance, making sure there were plenty of people between them, never losing sight of his broad back.
The militiaman entered marginally quieter streets. Serrah trailed him as he went into crooked lanes, emptier still and rubbish strewn. When he cut into a deserted alley she increased her pace and closed the gap. Her heart was hammering.
She hailed him with,
‘Hold!’
It was the first time she’d spoken out loud since escaping. The gravel-edged sound of her own voice startled her.
He turned, hand on sword.
Serrah stared at the blade like a starving woman spying meat.
‘Well?’ he said.
She lifted her gaze. ‘I want…’ Speech wavered, dried up. The blood roared in her ears. She just looked at him.
He studied her in turn. Her dark-ringed, intense eyes, ashen complexion and greasy, matted hair. The bruises, sores and grime, underneath which he could see she had been, might still be, quite pretty. He relaxed, judging her no threat.
‘What’s your business?’ he pressed.
Serrah focused. ‘You’ve something I want,’ she told him, coming closer.
He wrinkled his nose at the odour her unbathed body gave off, and waved a hand to fan himself. ‘And you’ve something I
don’t.
’ Then a false understanding dawned. A leer gashed his full-bearded face, revealing teeth the colour of slush. ‘Unh,’ he grunted knowingly. ‘Got a thing about uniforms, have you? Or is it the purse that draws you?’ He slapped a bulge at the side of his tunic.
‘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.