Scarlet Odyssey by C. T. Rwizi

Author:C. T. Rwizi [Rwizi, C. T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

BaChando, Seresa’s general dealer, was the first person to offer her a job when she arrived in Umadiland three comets ago with nothing but a sack of clothes and a cheap spear to her name.

A series of carts and wagons had driven her along seemingly endless dirt roads stretching from the Yerezi borderlands in the southeast and joining the World’s Artery just south of the stopover town. She already knew the local language, having learned it back home, but she quickly taught herself to speak exactly like a native so she could convince someone to give her a job without asking too many questions. And when BaChando hired her and she finally had the coin to spare, she taught herself to paint her face and dress like a native too.

It was supposed to be a mere disguise, but to Ilapara it became a way to remake herself in her own image, without anyone’s input on what was proper and what was not. Now her crimson Umadi veils and robes and her leather and aerosteel armor are the truest garments she could ever don, and Izumadi rolls off her tongue like she was born to it.

BaChando gladly rehired her when she fled back to Seresa after narrowly escaping Kageru with her life. The work’s a big step down from a mercenary company, and BaChando is as cold blooded as a snake, but at least the pittance he pays her keeps her fed, leaving just enough for her buck’s extortionate livery fees, a daily bath, and a bunk at the hostels in the town’s river district. All things considered, she can’t complain too much.

His store is one of those two-story buildings built along the Artery. Because of her detour to the Vuriro office, Ilapara has to meander through the meat market to get there.

She usually avoids Seresa’s meat market if she can, but she’s almost late for her morning shift, so there’s nothing else for it. Keep your head down, your eyes forward, she tells herself. Walk quickly; don’t look in the cages. Mind your own business. It’s a harsh world out there, and it’s not like you can do anything about it.

Ilapara is good at minding her own business—that’s a habit one quickly learns in Umadiland—but there’s something about the meat market that makes it hard for her not to look . . .

Like now. As she passes one of the caged wagons butting into the muddy road, she can’t help but sneak a look inside at the wraithlike Faraswa woman slumped against the iron bars—about my age, covered in layers of grime. The filthy dress clinging to her bones might have once been bright yellow; it’s a sooty brown now, brown like disease and old vomit. Her dark hair might be shoulder length, but it’s all matted to her scalp. And her tensor appendages, so spotless in her filthy prison, curling out of her temples like twin snakes of polished bronze. Ritual bed slave or muti sacrifice? Which one is

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