There are two doors. One is a supply cupboard, stocked with stationery, old file archives, and random bric-a-brac. Walls and floor are stone. No good. There's a cool draught coming from the other, cutting through the dull heat. That's my way out.
This place is musty and drear, and faintly sad. I briefly wonder what the Overseer's life is like behind his thin facade of dignity, whether he goes to his rooms alone, whether his life is as empty as his surroundings. Then I realise that I don't give a shit.
The draughty door is locked, but there's a key hanging on a peg on the back of it. This is trouble. I can get through, but unless I can lock the door from the outside and replace the key on the peg, they'll know I've been here.
I stare at the door, willing a solution to present itself. Speculatively, I try my key, but it doesn't fit. I take the other key down from the peg and unlock the door, open it a crack and peek out.
Beyond is a side-corridor of rough stone with dying torches choking in their brackets. It's not been cleaned for some time. That's good: a sign that it's rarely used. It terminates at the Overseer's door. There'll be little traffic through here.
I feel a pang of frustration. I could walk out of here now; I could disappear. Perhaps Arachi wouldn't notice the unlocked door. Perhaps.
No. You don't take risks like that. If Arachi raises the alarm, they'll find me, disguise or no disguise.
Besides, I still have to come back. I could leave Nereith and Charn without thinking twice. But I can't leave Feyn. Not if I want to get out of here with my humanity intact.
There has to be a way, but I'm not sure I'll have time to find it. And if I don't go soon, it'll be too late. The Overseer will return, and they'll catch me on the stairs.
I pull the door closed, search the desk and cupboards, looking for a spare key. Not happening.
I have to decide now. Turn back, or commit myself. And while I'm deciding, I notice again the annoying cold draught that chills the back of my neck.
The door to the corridor. There's light at the top. It doesn't sit well in its frame. I can fit my fingers in the gap between the stone and the top of the door.
I've got an idea. But I have to move fast.
I pick out a thread from the hem of my shirt, pulling it to a good length before snapping it off. Next I hurry to one of the lanterns, take off the glass bulb and soak the thread in lantern oil. I found candles when I searched through his desk; I steal one. He won't notice. As I'm tying the thread to the hollow O of the key's bow I move over to the windows and look through. Nobody can see me; I've spent enough time on the other side trying to peer through the shifting layers of smoke and grime to know.
The Overseer has finished his rounds. He's walking back towards the stairs.
I'm calm. Now my course is set, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm used to close scrapes, and I don't panic. You move quicker when you're composed.
Time is really short now. If this doesn't work, I'm finished.
I light the candle from one of the lanterns and then dart into the corridor, where I shut and lock the door. Holding one end of the thread, I push the key over the top of the door, in the centre: directly over the peg. Gently, I begin to lower it.
The smell of lantern oil hangs in the air. I can feel through the thread when the key touches the peg, but touching the peg and getting the fiddly fucking thing to snag are two different matters. The key is lying flat against the door, and the peg is protruding. The key needs to swing outwards, but I don't have any leverage. I grit my teeth, regretting the noise this is going to make; then I shoulder-barge the door. It sends the key swinging away from the rootwood. It clatters against the door on the backswing. An experimental slackening reveals that it's not caught on anything; I'm still holding its weight.
I try again. Align the key so that its bow is brushing against the peg; barge the door. Still it fails to catch. I could do this for hours and never get a result, or it could happen next try.
Again. The Overseer must be near the top of the stairs now. The noise of the forge will drown out the racket, but as soon as he's inside, he'll hear.
Again. Come on, you whorespawn.
Again.
I almost barge it a sixth time before I realise that there's no weight on the thread any more. I let it out a bit, and the key stays where it is. It's on the hook. I've got it.
Yes!
No. A soft tread in the corridor, a rustle of clothes. Someone's heard me. In the office, there is the rattle of a key in the lock. I'm trapped.
But not caught. Not yet. I touch the candle flame to the end of the thread. The flame races up its length and goes out as quickly, burning it to nothing in a flash. It runs over the top of the door and turns the evidence of my achievement into floating motes of carbon. If any shreds of blackened thread still cling to the key, they'll be destroyed when Arachi picks it up.
I hear the door to the forge close and lock, the Overseer's groan as he stretches. The tread comes along the corridor with purpose now; somebody light, walking softly. They must have heard me barge the door. I have nowhere to go. So I snuff out the candle with wet fingers, stuff it into my belt, and I go up.
The corridor is just big enough for two people to pass each other. If I brace my feet and hands against the wall, if I stretch, I can climb up. But I need to be flat up against the ceiling to stand any chance of evading whoever's coming.
I brace my hands against the wall and throw my feet out, catching the opposite wall with one, then the other, until I'm precariously balanced above the ground. The rough brick bites into my palms as I walk myself, muscles straining, backwards up the wall until my heels touch the ceiling.
I'm spread-eagled at the top of the corridor, the walls just a fraction too far apart to make this easy. I'm undernourished and out of training. Not sure how long I can hold this.
The source of the footfalls appears just as I've stilled myself, locking my joints as best I can. It's a slave girl. An Eskaran. She's wearing a white dress, embroidered at the sleeves and hem with Gurtan devotional mantras: hymns to the wisdom of the Laws. Sixteen, seventeen at most. Willowy and pretty, her blonde hair tied in a complex bundle behind her head. She passes beneath me without looking up – it's amazing how people never look up – and knocks softly on the door. Four times, slowly, to announce herself as a slave.
There's a short delay, then I hear the key being taken from the peg and slipped into the lock. He hasn't suspected anything, but feeling relief is difficult as my arms are beginning to burn. I begin to run my chants through my head, settling into a light trance state, helping me ignore the demands of my muscles, hardening them in place.
The door opens.
~ I offer to you the apologies of my heart ~ says the slave in flawless Gurtan, making a quick gesture with her hand and ducking slightly. ~ Through my parents and my parents' parents, I am imperfect ~
It's ritual language. The Overseer dismisses it patiently. ~ The kitchens do not have any rock-bat, then? ~
~ Overseer Arachi, it has been retained for the honoured Elder's visit. I pleaded on your behalf, but they would allow me none ~
He smiles indulgently and cups her face with his hand. She's plainly distressed. All her life, she's been taught to serve a master race that she genuinely believes is superior. It's not punishment that scares her, it's the shame of failing.
Her servility makes me furious. Not at her; she doesn't know any better. I'm mad at them, the enemy, the people who made her this way. She's young and beautiful and she should be in Veya, or dancing with the boys of her village, anything but this living death. The hate is suddenly overwhelming, boiling through me, unstoppable. A feeling pent up for a lifetime that can flood endlessly but never run dry. It washes away my trance, and I can feel the hurt gathered in my joints, in my shoulders and lower back and all through my limbs. If it wasn't for the time spent working the screens on the slurry-trough, I don't think I'd have had the strength to make it this far. But I can't hold it… I can't…