Chapter 4: Chapter 4: The Escort

Chapter 4: The Escort

In the time it took Quentin to finish cleaning himself up and get dressed, the Colosseum had all but emptied. The slaves remained, as did the few guards on the night shift. There were always a few people who lingered out front but most had already piled into the carts and were on their way home. When he stepped out of the employee’s entrance there was one cart left, filling quickly.

A behemoth beetle was hitched to the cart, placidly chewing on a mix of half rotten vegetation and garbage. The moonlight reflected off its shiny black carapace. It was half again as big as the cart it pulled, and the cart carried half a dozen people. More, if they were friendly and didn’t mind a slow, cramped ride as the monstrous insect lumbered across the city.

“You getting on?” The driver called out to him, patting the beetle’s single long, curved horn.

Quentin reflexively pulled his cloak tighter. He glanced over to the cart. The only open spot would sandwich him in between a particularly husky Policheran man and a young couple intent on devouring each other’s faces.

“I’ll walk,” he said.

The driver shrugged. “Nice night for it.” He closed the back of the cart and got into the driver’s seat. He took hold of the reins and let out a shrill whistle. The beetle’s wings fluttered once, then it lurched forward at a slow but steady pace.

He wasn’t wrong. Winter was on its way out and spring was around the corner. The night was warm enough for Quentin to forgo his gloves and just enjoy the breeze. Orchrisus at night was a different world entirely. Without the sun’s harsh glare enveloping the land in a vaguely orange haze as far as the eye could see, the soft glow of the moon and stars turned the bustling city into an ethereal paradise.

The Colosseum stood alone on the north edge of town. Where Quentin stood, there was a quarter mile of empty desert between him and the first line of shacks and tents. With each passing block the buildings grew more and more dense and labyrinthine. It was easy, standing there, to forget that he lived in the heart of arguably the largest city in the world.

At any given time there were thousands milling around or going about their lives, never realizing how wonderful it was, being invisible and unremembered. Every day they would meet and interact with dozens, if not hundreds of people and not think twice about how blessed they were. It was easy, standing there alone on the outskirts and looking in, to be envious of that sense of community and belonging.

“Shit.” Quentin heard from behind him. “Did I miss the last beetle?”

“Afraid so,” he replied, not turning around.

“That’s just my luck.” She, and it was definitely a she, stopped beside him. The cart disappeared behind the first line of tents. She let out a short, exasperated laugh. “You miss it too?”

“No. I like walking.” He looked down at her, and his heart skipped a beat.

People the world over came to Orchrisus, in all shapes, sizes, and walks of life. It was easy to become inured to the weird and unusual, but even so Quentin found himself staring. She was tiny, at least a foot shorter than Quentin. Her skin was a rich, dark brown, standing out even more against her yellow sun dress. She had to be an Islander.

The Islander smiled at him, and the night lit up. She had a heart shaped face that radiated warmth. It took him too long to notice her head was shaved completely smooth. Silver glinted from studs in her earlobes and left nostril. Quentin found himself staring, and only realized it when she arched one delicate eyebrow at him. He looked away.

“Hi there,” she said, amusement clear in her voice. “Now, do you like what you see, or was that disapproval? It’s always one of the two.” She laughed again. It was a warm, throaty, pleasant sound.

“Sorry,” said Quentin, “it’s been a long day. I didn’t mean to stare.” He started walking, willing his face to cool down.

The Islander wasn’t put off. She fell into step with him. “Oh, it’s not a problem. But that wasn’t an answer either,” she said.

“...Yes,” Quentin replied. He didn't know why he answered. Maybe it was the embarrassment of getting caught. “You look... you look good. Sorry for staring.”

“Don't be. The day men stop staring is the day I have to find a new job. Speaking of…” She slid her arm around his.

He stopped and turned to face her. His stomach jumped, and he wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to get away or because he was caught and she wasn't angry. All Quentin knew was that she made him vaguely uneasy.

“The place I'm staying is pretty far. Just north of the river. Is yours closer?” She grinned without any shame.

It all clicked. Quentin let out a breathless chuckle. “Do you ordinarily proposition strange, cloaked men late at night?” For a moment, he worried that he was off the mark, and that she would slap him.

“No,” she said, “I normally proposition rich men. Usually in the early evening, but I’m flexible.” She leaned forward, trying to get a peek at Quentin’s face.

He pulled away, holding his cloak tight. “I see. Doesn’t it seem a little dangerous? You have no idea who I am. I could be a crazed killer, for all you know.” He bit back a bitter chuckle.

The woman shrugged, still wearing that pleasant smile. “If you were, would you really be trying to get away from me? My name is Razia,” she said, holding her hand out. “Razia Rashid. A pleasure to meet you…?”

“Quentin,” he said, taking her hand. He immediately regretted it when she looked down and saw her small dark hand completely enveloped in his big pale grip. He took his hand back. “Sorry. I’m…” The words escaped him. With each passing second he came to wish that the earth would swallow him.

Razia didn’t seem bothered. “There’s no reason to be sorry. Or nervous.” She slowly extended her hand towards him. Towards his cloak, he realized, as she put her hand on his shoulder. “May I?”

No. Yes. Quentin’s heart pounded in his chest so hard there was no doubt she could feel it. It was silly. He knew it was silly. Razia was lovely, but she all but admitted she wanted money out of him. Or maybe it was curiosity. See if the rest of him was as much of a fre -- Quentin took a deep breath, and took a chance. He nodded.

The hood went down, and Quentin was exposed. There was no one else for at least a quarter of a mile, but a sense of panic and need to hide clawed at him from inside. Even if the moon wasn’t near full and bright, there was no missing him for what he was. Quentin stood very, very still, waiting.

Razia looked over him for a short eternity. Her face was neutral, eyes narrowed in concentration as she looked over his features. She took her time, as if she was trying to memorize him. “You,” she began. Here it came. Quentin grimaced. “Have gorgeous eyes.”

What?

“What?” he said out loud.

“Your eyes,” Razia said, pointing up at them, “are gorgeous. Haunting, even! I’ve never seen eyes that color before.” She laughed, and it was like a splash of cold water.

“You’re making fun of me,” said Quentin, frowning.

“I’m not! You could freeze a girl at twenty paces with eyes like that. That’s the lightest blue I’ve ever seen!”

His frown only deepened. “I think you might be forgetting something here.”

“Like what?” Realization caught up a second later, and she rolled her eyes. “I mean, yeah, you’re moonkissed, but --”

Whatever she said next was drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through his head. It didn’t matter how many times he heard the term, it was like a punch to the gut. He didn’t bother sticking around. Quentin flipped his hood back up and continued towards the city. A second later, Razia was at his side again, jogging to keep up with his pace.

“Hey, hold on!” Razia tugged on his arm again. She couldn’t have stopped him if she’d dug her feet in and held on. Quentin slowed, but didn’t stop. “Was it something I said?” He nearly pulled his arm back, but a quick glance showed that she looked earnest, if nothing else.

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“Moonkissed,” he said through clenched teeth. “I hate that word. There’s no curse. Naturalists have found animals like this, and no one talks about them being cursed. No one calls them moonkissed.”

Razia’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound. She had the good grace to look embarrassed. “What curse?” she finally managed to say. “Moonkissed are good luck, right?”

Quentin didn’t answer, but he stopped.

“Stillborn babies, given a second chance by the goddess of death?” she continued, haltingly. “Bring good luck and prosperity to their loved ones? I have a cousin who’s moonkissed, and people love him. His spouses feel pretty blessed, at least. C’mon, you gotta give me something here, hon.”

Quentin searched her face for even the slightest hint of deception, a smile, something. All he found was a lovely young woman, looking increasingly regretful and nervous. He lowered his hood slowly.

“I like your version better,” he said, forcing a smile. “I prefer albino though.”

“Oh thank the gods,” said Razia. She all but deflated, laughing. “I shouldn’t ask what it means around here, should I? I promise, if I had known it was a sore subject, I wouldn’t have said anything.” Razia closed the distance and put her hand on his chest. “How about we get indoors, and I give you a proper apology?”

He gaped. This was beyond shameless. Quentin’s face became an inferno. Her smile was back again, and mischievous this time. “Uhh…”

“Oh gods, you’re blushing!” Her eyes lit up. “No no, I’m not teasing,” Razia hastily added, “it’s just...Your face actually gets more color when you blush. You get pinker. It’s adorable.”

His mouth hung open with half a dozen sentences he couldn’t get out. He imagined he looked somewhat like a fish. Razia was patient, and she didn’t move. Her hands still rested on his chest, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It made it hard to think straight.

“Why me?” he croaked. “You, we --” Quentin licked his lips. “We already established you’re pretty --”

“Just pretty?” Razia grinned.

“And just half a mile from here is a decent sized inn,” Quentin continued, “where you could find any number of men who would accept before you could even finish offering. You don’t need to make anything up to me. Seriously.”

He met her gaze. He was roughly twice Razia’s size, but her hungry grin had him pinned. She was close enough to be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t move. Quentin felt like a small animal, cornered by a predator.

Razia shrugged. She trailed her hands down his chest, stopping before she got to his belt. “A girl’s gotta eat, right? I could probably have people lining up, but you’re the only one here, you look like you could use some good company, and…” Her grin widened. “You seem so nervous that I can’t see you possibly being a danger to anyone.

“Harmless tends to be a fantastic trait in potential clients.” Razia stuck out her tongue. It too had a silver stud through it. “What do you say, Quentin?”

He said nothing at first. It was tempting as it was difficult to not burst out laughing at being called harmless. Gods, it was refreshing to find someone not scared or disgusted by him. The way that she smiled at him was…

A show, Quentin reminded himself. She wanted money, and a sad freak like him was an easy mark.

What did that matter? Even if it was only for a night, it would be better to share it than to go home and brood until the sun came up. Again.

“How about this,” said Razia, voice softening, “walk me to a safe part of town. If we get there and you don’t want anything to do with me, I’ll drop it.”

Quentin snorted. “If I’m harmless, what good would having me around be?”

To his surprise, she was serious. “Just having another person here would keep some of the worst jackals away.”

He knew what she meant. Quentin nodded. He put his hood back up. Razia smiled. She hooked her arm in his once more, and they set off towards the center of Orchrisus.

The desert between the city and the Colosseum was a silent place. Few people lingered there long, even during the day. The only sounds were the ever present hum of insects and the sound of sand crunching beneath their sandals. That changed when they reached the tent village.

Those too poor to rent a house or even a room formed their own community on the outskirts. They weren’t bad people, but Quentin always kept his eyes open and one hand on his purse around them. Many of them wouldn't steal from each other, but there were no qualms about preying on the people passing through.

“So what had you there at the Colosseum so late?”

“Huh?” Razia’s question made him start. He turned away from the tents and back to her. “Oh. I work there.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? What do you do?”

Quentin froze. Razia stopped as well and looked at him, smiling shrinking but not fading. “I, uh.” He could kick himself. No one talked to him. No one asked him what he did. “I work in the infirmary,” he said, face heating up once more. “And the practice yard. When they need someone stitched up or a practice dummy to beat up on, they get me.”

It had been true, once.

“That’s versatile. So, if I get hurt, you can patch me up and if danger shows up, you can take the hits while I get away?” Razia gave his arm a playful squeeze.

Quentin chuckled. “Yeah, exactly.” He started moving again, faster now. He didn’t want to linger in that area any longer than they had to.

The end of the line of tents was in sight. They stopped abruptly, turning into a line of worn clay houses, all painted different vibrant colors. During the day, they kept the city from being the same drab beige as the environment. At night, they were the first signs of the city, and were marginally safer than the tent village. There were safer paths to Quentin’s home, but none as fast.

“What about you?” Quentin asked as they passed the threshold and he breathed a sigh of relief. “You should’ve probably been gone about ten minutes before I came out. They usually usher people out pretty quickly once the show’s over.”

When Razia didn’t answer immediately, Quentin looked down at her. Her face was oddly pensive. “The executions,” she said. “This was my first time catching a show. Can you believe that? I’ve been in Orchrisus for four months now, and this was the first time I’ve been to the Colosseum. Everyone was telling me I had to go and see it.”

A knot formed in Quentin’s stomach. “Yeah?” he croaked. “What did you think of it?”

“It...Seemed cruel, honestly. Having to die in front of that many people. But it was still pretty captivating!” she added quickly, “I mostly came for the first execution. That was...sad. The second one was a surprise, and that one was kind of fun. I thought that the man…”

“Antonio,” Quentin supplied. They passed a long haired, shirtless man leaning against a house, arms crossed over his chest and whistling to himself. Quentin eyeballed the man as they passed. He didn’t look up, but he let out a long, high pitched whistle that sent a shiver down Quentin’s back.

Razia looked at the man curiously, but turned back to Quentin. “Yeah, him. For a second I thought he was going to win. The guy next to me laughed at me for it, even! It was kind of funny. That executioner, the Butcher, right? They couldn’t seem to decide whether we’re supposed to cheer for him or be afraid of him.”

Quentin stopped them just shy of the next intersection of paths. He held up his hand before Razia could ask. This part of town wasn’t quiet at this hour. Lights could be seen through windows, and every so often a few younger men could be seen hanging together, dicing or laughing together. There was no one ahead of them. He couldn’t see past the houses on either side of him to see if there was anyone there, but he wasn’t about to ignore the feeling in his gut.

Instead, Quentin led them back a few feet and they slipped down a narrow alley between houses. Razia followed along, jogging to keep up with his longer steps. Sandwiched between houses, only the barest slivers of moonlight shone through. After a few agonizing seconds of walking silently, Quentin relaxed. He nodded to Razia.

“You take that Butcher thing seriously too?” Razia teased. “I don’t think he’s following us, hon. If he was, you work with him, right?”

Quentin forced a weak laugh. “I’m more worried about getting mugged than the Butcher getting me. This part of town can be shady.” Razia looked around the narrow alley. She raised her eyebrow. “I say, as I bring you down a dark alleyway.” He sighed. “Anyway, the Butcher only kills people who are guilty.”

The alley stretched on for another 20 feet. They got to the end when Razia stopped and looked up at him questioningly. “You sure about that? Everyone who gets sentenced to death is guilty, without any mistakes?”

Quentin shrugged, looking away. He could lie, he supposed. But if he was honest with the people he put to death, why couldn’t he be honest with her? “No,” he admitted. “I guess I can’t guarantee that there aren’t mistakes. The Supreme Arbiter is thorough. I mostly trust the courts to do their job.”

“Mostly,” Razia echoed. “That first man who was executed tonight. He was definitely guilty, right? He busted some people out, and they killed people.”

Another punch to the gut. He took a deep breath and let it out. “That first execution really bothered you, huh?” Quentin asked quietly. “It bothered me too. I had a chance to talk with Horace before the end. He regretted what he did. He accepted his death as fair.”

Quentin took a chance and put his hand on her shoulder. Razia looked at it, and then back up at him. The corners of her lips twitched, though he didn’t know if it was the start of a smile or her holding back a laugh. Comforting the soon to be deceased, he decided, was easier.

Footsteps sounded around the corner. Quentin stepped in front of Razia, stomach twisting. A second later, two men appeared at the exit to the alley, breathing heavily. Both of them were shirtless and had intricate tattoos on their chests. In the dark, Quentin couldn’t make out their faces, but he didn’t need to.

“Quentin?” Razia asked, peeking from behind him. “Is that…?”

“Street gang,” Quentin replied. “I don’t suppose we can just walk away from this, can we?” He backed up as they walked forward, keeping Razia behind him at all times.

“That depends, friend,” a voice said from behind them. Quentin whirled around to see a third man. He walked into a moonbeam, and Quentin could see it was the shirtless whistler. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Quentin realized his instincts were right. “How many shards do you have on you?”