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.
A spectacle of masts above the rooftops announced the port from blocks away. Some of the masts moved, gliding at a stately pace, pennants fluttering. Higher still, scores of shrieking gulls wheeled and dived.
It was dusk, but the streets still buzzed with sailors, merchant seamen, stevedores lugging sacks and barrels, passengers arriving and departing, handcarts, horses and wagons. A chain of galley slaves shuffling miserably under the lash.
On the docks themselves longshoremen loaded and unloaded all manner of cargo. In slings hanging from hoists, livestock bleated. Fowl beat their wings against the bars of their tiny cages, stacked twenty high. Fishermen gutted their catches, scenting the air with a tang that made Serrah want to retch.
She took care to avoid the customs officials, port guards and occasional paladin scattered among the crowd. Collar up, head down, she walked purposefully along the line of vessels, weighing up their pros and cons.
Hardly a berth was empty, and not all the ships were mercantile or navy. Private yachts and clippers were moored here too, their sails bearing the coats of arms of ruling families or the more powerful guilds. In a show of real wealth, the crests were glamoured. They rippled, shone, slowly changed colour. The lions rampant, the unicorns, eagles and twisting serpents pranced and writhed.
Likewise, many a ship’s figurehead was magically animated. One, a traditional comely maiden, jiggled ample breasts with impossibly red nipples. As Serrah passed, the wooden effigy gave her a salacious wink. She assumed the craft was a Diamond Isle transport. It was certainly vulgar enough.
At length she came to a three-masted merchantman, a ship of appreciable size. Big was good. It meant the vessel would likely be going somewhere far away, and should be spacious enough to hide her. And it was nearly ready to sail. The last few items of payload sat on the dock, waiting to be stowed. A group of crewmen stood by the prow engaged in conversation, their backs to her.
Serrah looked up. Several hands were in the rigging, and one was climbing to the crow’s nest, but she couldn’t see anybody on deck.
She seized her chance. Snatching a box, she lifted it to her shoulder, hiding her face from the chattering crewmen. Bent over, moving quickly, she ascended the gangway. She expected someone to shout a challenge, or the sound of pursuing footsteps. Nothing happened.
On board, she discarded the box and surveyed the scene. In front of her was a cargo hold, its deck cover shut and bolted. She made her way astern, keeping low, staying away from the rail. Amidships there was another hold, and this one was open. Creeping to the edge, she peered into the chasm. The cavernous hull was dark, and she could just make out a small mountain of filled sacks directly below. She couldn’t see or hear any movement down there. Nor could she find a rope or hauling tackle to help her descend.
So she jumped.
The long drop knocked the wind out of her, and she nearly shouted. At least the sacks weren’t full of coal or pig iron. She scurried down them and onto the floor, wincing. Her joints were still sore. Blinking in the gloom, she tried to get her bearings. The only source of light she could see, apart from overhead, was further to the stern; a doorway shape, faintly outlined. Newly acquired dagger in hand, she headed for it.
Darkness and stacks of cargo got in her way. But eventually, shins and elbows grazed, she reached the entrance. It led to a smaller hold. Smaller, yet probably large enough to build a cottage in. Such light as there was came from a half-open hatch cover, identical to the one she had dropped through. At the far end of this hold were three wooden doors. Skirting the feeble shaft of light, she went towards them.
Opening the first one took mettle. But like the second and third, the room contained only clutter. She thought for a moment. Then, reluctantly because she didn’t like the idea of there being only one way out, or the confinement, she slipped into the right-hand room. She left the door ajar so she had weak light to see by.
The chamber was about cabin-sized, but most of it was crammed with chests and bales. She began rearranging them, stopping frequently to listen for anyone approaching. Soon she had a space excavated near the back of the room, just big enough for her to fit into, and a chest ready to plug the entry once she was in. She thought the hiding place would look solid enough to a cursory glance. A proper search was another thing.
A loud crash startled her. The frail light was cut off. They were securing the hatch. She could hear covers along the length of the ship being slammed with an echoing finality.
Serrah groped through the dark and crawled into the cavity. She pulled the trunk into the gap behind her, but left a tiny crack for a spy hole. Not that she could see anything. Settling as best she could on rough hessian sacks, she made sure her sword and knife were close to hand.