This Red Sky

Chapter Twelve

Six months later

The tent city outside the walls still grew as Syralth reigned over the countryside. Some of the shelters grew more permanent, wooden huts with crooked doors. The residents of Palasotarr heard it called Ar Markhul—New Home— when the shepherds came inside to pawn their few valuables.

The city had been built a thousand years ago as a home for one of Ost-Drachen's great and long-extinct dynasties. The walls were later equipped with ballistas and catapults to defend those inside from the wrath of the dragons. But as the centuries passed and the population grew, the buildings sprouted towers connected by bridges, and later, platforms that hung between them and swung gently in high winds. More houses were built of wood on these hanging streets in the sky, the swinging bridges, rickety stairs and lifts dangling on fraying ropes standing in sharp contrast with the ancient buildings of graceful limestone.

Sir Klodius walked on one of the upper platforms, a bustling market. The wind blew hair and billowed veils and robes, so that wealthy people in their brightly dyed clothing looked like flags from afar. Vendors hawked their wares: brightly coloured fruits and vegetables, idols of gods and dead heroes, sparkling trinkets and sacks of grains. Blood ran from a butcher's stall into a pipe running twenty stories down to the ground.

Beggars crowded the sides of the walls, and the prostitutes and mercenaries disappeared inside when the sun came up. A man was playing an out-of-tune flute for tips, and the tinny notes rose over the din of the people's voices.

Klodius glanced over his shoulder.

There was the shimmering sound of a bone tambourine, and someone brushed by him in a swirl of coloured cloth. The dancer twirled, her rainbow of skirts fanning out like a burst of flowers, and then, to the rhythm of the instrument clutched in her left hand, danced towards a laughing group of armoured men by the wall, accepting a few copper coins and slipping them into a pouch at her hip. Dodging a groping hand, with a slight scoop of her hips she leapt into an open space, lifting the top skirt of deep purple so it fluttered like a butterfly's wing. The dancer's dark hair swung over her back, thick and curly, and her skin was dark and covered in freckles, the sign of a life spent in the sun.  Her face was concealed with a paper mask, decorated with delicate drawings of runes and flowers.

People began to bump into him as they gathered to watch her, and Klodius realized he had been standing in place, staring with his jaw slack and his eyes wide. He pushed through the crush of people to the edge of the circle that was beginning to form around her whirling, circling form. Coins jingled to the ground at her feet, and she deftly scooped them up, the sun glittering off her copper bangles and necklaces.

Finally, her dance came to an end, and Klodius watched her curtsy and make a quick round of the people gathered, collecting tips. He was barely aware of the clapping, or of her soft "thank you, sir" as she took a silver from his hand as she passed. He noticed the calluses of her feet as the people dispersed and she moved to the wall, sinking down against it to count what she'd earned.

He approached quickly, and she looked up at him with wide brown eyes as she heard his armour creaking.

"Sir?" her voice failed, her hand closing on the coins.

He knew she expected him to accuse her of being a whore out in the daylight, or to solicit her himself, or banish her to one of the lower levels. There was a moment before he spoke again, his mind battling between "what is your name?" and "how have you come to this?"

"Are you a virgin?" his mouth blurted out.

The maiden got to her feet, taking a step away. Klodius shook his head, kicking himself and reached out to take her arm, not too suddenly, as if she were a wild animal he might frighten away.