A Life of Grime

Chapter 8

We hurry through the smallest alleyways of the city. The parts so bedraggled and run down that the paving is crumbled beyond recognition. Haunted eyes peer out from the doorways, watching our progress with suspicion. I see more that one blade glinting in the moonlight.

The harsh downward slant of the road pushes me on, encourages me to move faster. Up ahead of me Kellan once again pauses. I pull myself slowly away from the walls, angry with my slow progress. I hear him cough loudly, effectively covering his laughter. But the glint in his eyes gives him away. He watches as I once again struggle to pull my skirts out from where they are stuck in the narrow streets.

“Perhaps we should have changed before leaving?” Kellan suggests to me.

“No, I just wish Fran's taste in ballgowns was less... poufy.”

“Well, in any case, we have arrived.” Kellan points to the doorway he is standing in front off. I run my eyes over the dismal appearance, no different from any of the other doorways we already passed. I wonder how Kellan could tell this was the right one.

“It... doesn't look like much,” I caution.

“Well,” Kellan says, not put out in the slightest, “that is because it is not about what, it's about who.”

Without another word he knocks on the wooden door and then without waiting opens it. I enter after him, squeezing my skirts through the doorway.

Inside the smell of cleanliness and herbs meets my nose. I look around surprised. The inside is at complete odds with the outer appearance. Where before there had been the assumption of a run down building with the walls minutes away from collapsing, the inside spoke of a well kept... hospital.

Several doorways line the hallway where, inside, I can see beds with patients lying on them. A work station is set up in the corner with boxes and baskets full of gauzes and bandages.

A young man dressed in light blue see's us and approaches, a weird look on his face. “Sorry sir,” he says to Kellan, “but we don't like her kind being here.”

I freeze, but Kellan doesn't loose his easily composed face. “Go get Tazzie, if you please.”

A look of indecision comes over the young mans face, but it doesn't remain there for long. An old women enters into the room, distracting him.

“There's no need to send for me, Little Prince. I'm never far away.” Her eyes catch on me. “And look, you've brought me a Grimer. Sorry, I don't cater to them anymore.”

But I am frozen in my spot. “You,” I whisper out hoarsely.

“Have I healed you before then child? Usually I don't forget a face but then again I am getting old...” She trails off as I lift my chin, making my tattoo's extremely prominent. Recognition fills her eyes.

“Ahh, of course. You.”

Kellan looks between us confused. “You have already met?”

Tazzie gives him one more glance and then turn and starts away. “Into my office then,” she shouts over her shoulder.

We have no choice but to follow her.

An explanation on my name. It is spelled Mila. Many people try to pronounce it exactly like that. They are wrong. More try to pronounce it as mee-LAH. They are also wrong, but closer. The truth is that you can't say my name properly unless you have a true accent of a desert person. An accent that brings into my name a little extra sound, a bit like the word lemon.You can't think about pronouncing it because you will just mess it up. You have to know.

Tazzie pronounces my name right.

“Mila. Such a pretty name.”

I stare back at her from across the desk in her office. Is this a trap? Will she reveal all my secrets? “Thank you,” I reply.

“What do you want Tazzie?” Kellan says, exasperated with our tension.

“Want? I had thought it was you who came to see me? But the name Mila is very pretty. Not one usually given to a baby.”

I stare back at her, knowing exactly where she is going with this conversation.

“Do you know what the name Mila means, Kellan?” Tazzie asks.

“I”m sure he doesn't care,” I say quickly.

“No—I wan't to know,” he says, looking between the two of us, confused.

“Mila,” Tazzie sighs, “'Beloved of the People'. A name that can only be given to someone who can live up to it. I'm interested in how you earned it dearie?”

“I think you already know how I got it.”

“Could someone please explain to me what is going on!” Kellan jumps out of his chair and stands up, towering over both of us.

I look over and meet Tazzie's eyes, understanding that she will let this be my story to tell. I run my fingers up from my heart to my chin. “Blood magic,” I begin, “cannot be done by anyone without Grimer training. Of course all my people were killed in the battle.”

“So who did your tattoos then?” Kellan asks. I look over at Tazzie and his eyes how his understanding.

“My mother was a Grimer,” Tazzie said in her gravely voice. “My father was a trader who fell in love with her. Of course a northerner could not be allowed to live in the southern kingdom.”

“Wait, I thought you father was from Hayes?” Kellan interrupts.

“He was,” Tazzie explains. “Everyone else is considered a northerner to the southerners. Even if you really come from the western Kingdoms. My parents came here to live, but my mother would not give up her past. She trained me a bit in the ways of healing. Enough to preform simple ceremonies.”

“But,” Kellan says frowning, “Isn't blood bonding a complicated thing? You would need someone experienced for that.”

I try to meet Tazzie's eyes. Silently I plead that she tell no more of the story. It is too close to me and too painful. I had forgotten how insightful Kellan can be. And I really don't need him knowing all my secrets.

But it is all in vain. Tazzie's eyes go dark with memory. “The girl knew how to do the ceremony,” she says quietly.

“The girl?” Kellans asks, and then he gasps as he realizes. “Mila, they made you do the ceremony on yourself?”

“No,” I pause for a breath of strength, “they just made me show Tazzie how to do it.”

I refuse to meet his eyes, staring down at my hands, their fingers clutching desperately in my skirts. Limma wriggles on my finger unhappily.

“How did they get you to...?”

A rock is clogged in my throat, preventing me from speaking, or stopping anyone else from speaking.

“They had her little brother,” Tazzie tells him quietly. I don't have to be looking up to know that her eyes have turned old and sad. We both remember vividly what happened that night. The pain I went through.

But it wasn't my own pain. Getting my tattoo was nothing compared to the pain of seeing the tears on my little brothers face. The ones that he tried to hide from me. The ones he tried to pretend he wasn't crying.

And I know that Tazzie can still see his crying face in her mind also.