EARLY ACCESS | Chapter Four

♢
Grainy

I am twenty-three when I come to. The room is dimly lit by the early morning sun struggling to fit through the tears in the curtains. The sound of people sleeping fills my ears. People I don’t know.

I’ve been living this way for two years now, going from hostel to hostel, doing what jobs I can, when I can, unsure what goal I’m exactly trying to work towards. Tomorrow it will be ten months since I’ve heard from any of them. I don’t think they’re coming back for me.

I rise, being careful not to wake the sleeping bodies next to me, and make my way to the bathroom. Kneeling with my head in the grimy bathtub, I unwrap my hair and begin the process of staining it brown again. The dye has been gradually coming out over the last week, which is normal, but still, the process is as cumbersome as ever in the cramped room.

I go through my mental list for the day. Yesterday I ran out of food, so I have to go to the market a few streets away. I must make sure to take the back roads this time, as yesterday I spotted a group of soldiers milling around where there are usually none. There have been an increasing amount of them recently. It might be time to move on again soon.

The dark brown dye runs down my forearms, dripping into the bathtub and staining it. After the market, I have to meet my buyer. All the way at the other end of the city; several hours’ walk, because I mustn’t ask for a ride—I can’t let myself be seen. The buyer will likely want someone injured, shaken up a little, maybe dead. They don’t usually ask for that last one, but I never know. I have become very good at helping strangers carry out their personal vendettas.

After the buyer, I will have to carry out whatever task they ask me to do and then, I decide, I will leave for the next city. I’ve been here two weeks now and am starting to grow restless. I keep myself as invisible as I can, but I can still feel the stares. The hostel’s night shift have started to quietly greet me when I come in, and their recognition is starting to put me on edge. It’s only a matter of time until I come in sporting blood I wasn’t able to clean off of me.

I squeeze coffee-coloured water out of my hair and into the bathtub, then pat it dry with a towel that the front desk gave me for an extra fee. Looking at myself in the mirror, I assess my handiwork. The job is better than it was when I first started doing this, but I’m also running low on dye and it’s starting to show. The final result is more of a dark auburn than anything else, the red of my hair’s true colour showing underneath.

I pack up my things, leave my key by the sleeping woman at the front desk, place a tiny handful of small red beads by the door, and slip into the cool morning air.

♢

It’s still early enough for the light outside to be tinged blue, but people here take advantage of that. By midday, the heat is so intense that being outside is not an option, so instead people start their days early. I head towards the market, taking the long route to avoid where I last saw the soldiers, but also to kill time. I don’t want to be out in the heat either, but being among the first few stragglers of the morning isn’t much of a better option. It will make me more visible, and I must be the opposite.

In order for me to be invisible here I wear orange. The colour is everywhere, from the sandstone buildings to the fruits and vegetables sold at markets, the fabrics people drape over their bodies, the vibrant sunsets, the sand dunes in the distance. They all merge into one beautiful pool of sepia, pumpkin, gold, and turmeric, and so on my first day here I bought a large piece of yellowish-orange fabric to wrap around my head. I use it to hide my horns mainly, my most distinguishing feature, and I paint lines on my skin to distract from the bright red ones that are already there. I know I do not blend in seamlessly—rubinae are rare, and even rarer in hot regions like this—but as long as I can do it well enough to be overlooked, that’s enough for me.

I hear voices approaching ahead of me and press myself into an alcove, ducking my head and pretending to be busy with my shoe. I hold my breath as they approach, footsteps heavy on the sand-dusted stones of the street. Heavy like they’re clad with boots. And nobody wears boots around here unless they are a soldier.

They’re laughing with each other, talking casually as they walk past. They don’t stop when they pass me, and if they see me they don’t acknowledge me. I let out a heavy exhale when they turn the corner, my heart beating loudly in my ears. There have never been soldiers in these back roads. I need to get out of here.

When I reach the market, the sun has climbed just above the sand dunes and is beginning to warm the air. Rays of light slide through the narrow gaps between buildings and project onto the sides of the market booths, their bright fabrics faded from years of enduring this cycle. The market is comfortably full, keeners and early-morning risers taking their pick from the fresh produce, breads, and miscellaneous items on display at each booth. I slip between them, staying in the middle of the crowd until I spot something that I need, then darting out, paying, and joining the flow of people again. I never stay at a booth for long and I never make conversation with the seller for fear of them remembering me, but I’ve discovered that being too hasty attracts attention in itself, so I’ve gradually fine-tuned my market strategy. The booths remind me of home, and the young child in me whispers to swipe more than I’m paying for: an apple here, half a loaf there, an extra bottle of oil or couple of matchsticks. I shove the child to the back of my mind, where I shove the things I don’t want to think about. Heidi’s there. Ariadne too.

By the time I’m done, my bag of money is tangibly lighter. There’s a heavy thing in my stomach when I think of it, so I shove that to the back of my mind too. I will be getting paid today. I will not allow myself to go hungry again.

The city is full of alcoves, so I climb up some narrow stairs set precariously into the side of one of the taller buildings and eat my breakfast in one. To my left, facing North, I can see the sails of ships docked at the mouth of the river. Beyond them and the river, much farther, where I can no longer see, will be the mountains at the border. Ronan is there somewhere I imagine, set up where he will never be found, comfortable, maybe even making a new life for himself. Maybe him and the others have regrouped and forgotten all about me.

Behind me is the East, and although it is obstructed by the building I’m against right now, I know that if I head far enough in that direction, I’ll eventually reach Ameranth, the beautiful gleaming capital, the powerhouse of the Southeast world. Everything we did was to get their attention. For now though, I must shove that memory to the back of my mind too, because today I am going West.

The building I’m using as my breakfast site turns out to be a clock tower. The bell is deafening from this close, announcing the shift between the early morning and the start of the day. Without looking, I know that the market below will now start to fill with a thick crowd, the keeners and early-morning risers gone after picking the booths clean of the freshest and best-quality spoils. I follow their example, packing up my bag and hopping down from my alcove to thread through the crowd and out into the street. I make sure to check for any more soldiers before taking the closest back road.

I feel at home in these quiet streets. They remind me of my childhood, of slipping behind and between buildings to avoid the eyes of the villagers. I came to know that network of forgotten and overlooked streets better than anyone else, and could disappear into them at the slightest hint of trouble. The muscle memory comes back now as I wind between smooth sandstone and colourful fabrics, the smells of people starting their day trailing out of back windows and vents. These particular streets are foreign to me, but their concept isn’t, and so I let my feet take me where they want me to go. I do not know the identity of my buyer, only that the note I found in my pocket yesterday was inscribed with my name. Half the people who know my name are dead, so whoever this person is, the fact that they worked hard enough to find me for this job says all that I need to know.

The buildings on my right fall away to reveal a hillside overlooking the residences at the edge of town. The buildings are smaller here, more run-down. I watch a trio of soldiers jog very seriously down one of the streets in the distance. My skin prickles at the idea that they might be looking for me.

In my mind I know that isn’t true; I’ve done an exceptional job at keeping a low profile, only getting better as time goes on. Still, my thoughts extend to every person I’ve interacted with while taking shelter in this city. The front desk woman, the sellers at the market, the boy who asked me for change two days ago. Any one of them could have been a mole. Any one of them could be following me right now.

I glance over my shoulder. Nobody there.

♢

I reach the building—or at least, what I presume to be the building—by midday. Midday is the worst time to be out, because nobody else is. If somebody sees me in the street they might stop and ask what I’m doing out here in the heat, if I need somewhere to rest, if I know where I’m going. At least, that’s if they’re good-natured; soldiers wouldn’t allow for such pleasantries.

I curl my fingers around the note in my pocket. It feels odd, showing up at this building without the slightest idea of why I am here. Previously, I’ve always known at least a little bit about who I’m working for and how our arrangement came to be. Usually people would find me via word of mouth, or I would find my way into scenes where I could find work. It’s surprising actually, how many people are out there who want someone else removed from the world.

I’m getting anxious standing out in the sun, so I give the door three sharp knocks and step back, ready to flee if the person on the other side is not who I’m looking for—not that I know who I’m looking for. But to my unease, the door gently swings open, revealing a dimly-lit hallway on the other side. A cool breeze wafts out from inside.

I shift from foot to foot out in the street, weighing my options. On one hand, I don’t have much to lose by going in blindly; the others are long gone and it’s just me now, so it’s not like I need to protect anyone. On the other, a small part of me still clings onto the hope that they will come back for me, and so I must remain invisible until they do, protecting our secrets. If I go in, how am I to know whether it’s a trap or not?

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice the door swinging back until it’s almost closed again. I jump forward, attempting to lodge my hand in the crack before the latch can find the wall, but instead misjudge the weight of the door and go straight through the entrance into the house. I land on a soft rug that smells of mothballs and hear the door close behind me.

The hallway is much cooler than outside, diffused light shining into the space from a murky oval window above the door. It’s quiet, incredibly so. The noise of the outside world has been completely muffled by the thick walls. My hand finds the note in my pocket. I know I am at the right address, I’ve checked countless times. Now it’s just a matter of finding out who sent me here.

I get to my feet and do what I do best—become invisible. There’s a dim light coming from somewhere at the end of the hallway, so I press myself to the wall and advance with slow, deliberate, soundless steps. Years of muscle memory float to the surface of my mind and my hand instinctively finds the blade concealed in my clothing. The house is so unnervingly quiet.

The room at the end of the hallway is equally quiet, and after a moment of assessment, equally empty, save for the lamp set on a table at one end of the room, filling the space with a soft orange glow. My skin prickles again, the thought of this whole thing being a trap becoming a little more real. I’ve been in situations like these countless times; every inch of me is fine-tuned to understand danger, but aside from the anxious thought in my head, nothing in my body tells me I should be worried.

I take one step into the room, another soft rug adorning its floor, and immediately feel a change in the air. I whirl around and lunge at the figure behind me, hurling their back against the wall and pressing the flat of my blade against their neck. A hoarse gasp escapes their throat as the air goes out of their lungs, and their hands shoot up instinctively towards the blade and to my hands pressing it into their skin.

Except their hands don’t go to the blade.

Softly, their hands go to my face.

I freeze, and for a moment the image of Ariadne flashes in front of me. I blink it away, and when my eyes focus I have to blink several more times before realizing the image actually in front of me is in fact a real one.

“Hi, Keia,” Heidi whispers.

She is not scared—or at least, doesn’t show it in her face. Her eyes bore deeply into mine with a mix of emotions that I can’t place, and I wonder if I look the same as I process her in front of me. She looks almost exactly like she did two years ago, only with longer hair. In one motion I let the blade clatter to the ground and pull her into my arms, despite being significantly shorter than her. She accepts the hug readily, and all my grainy memories of her break out of the back of my mind where I’ve kept them shoved for two years and coalesce into one very clear, very tangible picture of her.

Heidi laughs into my hair. “You know, I was starting to doubt whether it was actually you who came.” She pulls back and examines me. I must look so strange to her, covered in paint and dye and with every trait we have in common altered to be less conspicuous. “I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

“How did you find me?” I ask in bewilderment. I’ve only been here for two weeks, and this is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since we all scattered.

She pulls something from her pocket and reaches her hand towards the light of the lamp to show me. In her palm is a handful of small red beads, the same ones I have been placing by the doors of every place I stay in the hopes that someone—she—would find them, find me. I want to collapse in relief. Or maybe scream in frustration.

Instead I croak out, “What took you so long?”

Her face breaks out into a huge smile. She steps away from me, appears to debate over something in her mind, then darts off into a different room before coming back with a small pair of scissors, a bar of soap, and a bowl. “Sit,” she says, gesturing to some chairs by the lamp in the corner, “and I will tell you everything.”