The red sun smolders brightly, reflecting off the gray sands of the Dustfeld and being absorbed against the black basalt buildings of Atoka. The strong winds snatch and tug at Fallan Clastric’s unraveling uniform as she pulls the scarf around her mouth a little tighter, hoping her hair isn’t trying to sneak from between the layers and give away the fact that the kechie is subpar for a native. She hasn’t wrapped a kechie around her head in almost five years, but the garb keeps her Faceless and she can pass as a wandering acolyte while keeping her hair and eyes free of sand. Dusties roam around the town’s oasis, the bazaar in full commotion, even on a day as hot as this one.
Sweat trickles down her neck, but she barely notices as she moves through the crowded bazaar, fingers itching to take a piece of fresh fruit off any of the stalls, stomach rumbling at the prospect. Fallan keeps her eyes on the ground as she passes the merchant who found her sleeping on his sand barge this morning. She managed to get on and travel the five hours from Eroktan, but exhaustion slipped in between the lulling hum of the engine and the methodic sway of the barge sliding over the ripples of sand.
The heat from the sandstone beneath her feet seeps into the soles of her worn boots, one more thing that needs replacing. Once or twice on the six weeks she’s been traveling, the thought to find a permanent residence, get a job, create a life, crossed her mind, but the urge to get further away, as far away as she can, keeps her from standing still for long. She finds a stall where the merchant, wrapped in reds and yellows, is in a deep conversation with the owner of the neighbor stall. Fallan hovers for only a moment, her hand whisking a couple of mandarins from the pile stacked on the edge furthest from the merchants.
"—says she’s been missing for six weeks," the red and yellow merchant murmurs, her voice as dusty as the sandstones beneath them. Her eyes are lined with kohl and her bushy black hair is pulled back tight, tugging at the corners of her eyes. "I’m not sure I believe it. I think they’re planning something."
The other merchant huffs, his handlebar mustache drooping down to his chin to match his wrinkles. The soft blue of his kechie is a shock of color that stands out against the weary red skin of his neck and his bald head, dark and leathery. "I wouldn’t be surprised if she is missing, Rena. I wouldn’t be surprised if General Atsworth murdered her."
Chills run across Fallan’s skin at the mention of the general. She has her food. Why won’t her feet move? The uneven skin of the mandarins makes her hand sweat.
The red and yellow merchant, Rena, chuckles softly. "Why would he want to kill his wife? After all she’s done for him."
"The lieutenant colonel was Aja, like us," the older merchant says blandly, as if it’s obvious. Rena rolls her eyes at the old merchant. "Who single-handedly committed autogenocide. Really, Mr. Trossavar, are you going to defend that monster?"
"No, Rena, I only aim to—"
"Hey! You!" Rena turns towards Fallan, eyes narrowed. "If you aren’t going to purchase anything, move elsewhere! Your smell is turning away paying customers."
Fallan cringes, because she does smell; she keeps forgetting that she smells because she’s so accustomed to it now. She half bows before turning away, but not before her gaze snags on Mr. Trossavar’s as he studies her with a knowing glare. But he can’t know. She’s Faceless.
She leaves the bazaar, picking her way through the city streets to find something secluded. When she’s far enough away from spectators, her back against the wall of an alley as she rests in the shade, she starts to peel one of the mandarins. Her fingers make quick work of the task before she dares to lower the kechie and takes an excessive bite, the juice running down her chin as she tries to remember to chew before swallowing. Her last meal was two days ago in Eroktan, the Faceless temple there providing her with a meal and a bed before encouraging her make a pilgrimage to Ladris, the city on the edge of the Chasm.
If she goes to Ladris, she’s bound to run into the general, his final goal for his campaign. The capital houses ruins that provide easy access to the depths of the ravine that cuts the world in two. Access that the general and Mezith want. And potentially, finally conquering the people of the Dustfeld in the process as well. The Aja have held off Mezith for years, the last free country on the continent. Fallan has thought time and again over the past six weeks that she should go to Ladris, warn the Council there. But the people of the Dustfeld consider her a traitor, not a prisoner of war. Her words would fall on angry, deaf ears.
Shoving the rest of the mandarin into her mouth, she starts to peel the other one, her movements jerky and angry. Her people didn’t see what she’d done, they didn’t see how she turned the general towards better defended cities that withstood siege while they evacuated using the tunnels of the Dustfeld. They didn’t see how she ensured the soldiers of Mezith were unprepared for retaliation ambushes the Dusties led in the middle of the night. They didn’t see what she’d suffered for them. With a glance at her ashy red hands, the juice from the mandarin gleams on her fingers and bits of peel are stuck under her short fingernails.
She takes a bite, the stolen fruit having no flavor in her mouth. Bitter thoughts sour the taste. She puts the last piece into her mouth, desperately trying to eradicate her negativity, as a figure comes into view at the end of the alley near the street. "Her. That’s her." Fallan blinks past the sunlight, the city guard coming into focus as the old man from the market hides behind the corner of the building, his blue kechie standing out against the black and gray basalt.
The guard steps towards her, the face hidden by the helmet with only slits for eyeholes. Fallan remembers wearing one, the surprise at the design that made it easier to breath than she imagined. She scrambles to her feet as the guard approaches, one hand out to pacify, the other on the hilt of the firearm on their hip.
Fallan throws the mandarin peel into the guard’s face, and darts passed them into the street as she yanks her kechie back into place. The old merchant stumbles away from her, his hands knotting into his old, gray clothing. Running down the street, she makes her way back towards the bazaar, easier to get lost in a crowd. Footsteps pound the stone behind her, more than one pair. She knows she shouldn’t, but she risks a glance behind her: two Faceless city guards hot on her trail. Before she’s fully looking front again, she slams into something—someone—and lets out a groan as a large hand encircles her bicep.
"Acolyte," the guard who grabbed her intones. "Your cooperation is required. We will escort you to the nearest holding facility." The other two guards stop behind her; she can’t even hear them breathing heavily.
Panic itches it’s way down her throat, but they’re already moving down the street before she can even think to let out a scream. As her eyes dart back and forth, she sees, near the entrance to the bazaar, the old merchant and the one she stole from in deep conversation and gesturing towards her. A few kids loiter near a small café just before the bazaar, laughing and kicking a hacky sack. Everything here is so calm, so normal.
She wants to rage that the general is coming, that he’s planning his wholesale slaughter of the Aja in the north using worn maps. But her fight was driven out of her over a year ago, so she walks with her escorts listlessly. A woman beats out a rug on the slabs of her porch. A small dog yips and darts away from a young girl chasing it. A man with ember eyes leaning against one of the buildings raises an eyebrow towards her with an amused expression on his face. Briefly, her gaze meets his, and she sharply inhales: his gray skin gleams in the sunlight as though laced with metal, his hair is dustswept and grayish orange, like a dying flame, his Cheshire smile winks under a perfect button nose.
The guards turn, guiding her down another street. When she manages a glance back, the man is gone. Even though her mind swirls with potentialities as they enter the holding facility, her thoughts drift back to the man, to his gray skin. An outsider. They put her in one of the facility rooms with two chairs and a table, a glass of water and pitcher setting on the table. She doesn’t remember the walk through the facility. She sits at the table, folds her hands in her lap, and waits as her mind races to find a way out of this mess.