Heartfelt Sounds (2 page)

My face has lost all of its color. “The Saints'?” I whisper. “I couldn't…”
A brothel? And I told Lore that Althea would never…

“Mali and Rayen went there when Althea let them go.”

I am aghast, zither square against my chest like a shield. “They were apprentices…”

“Just like you, Naia.” Hana crosses her arms, her eyes move to stare into the distance. “Where-ever you go—you can't stay here. Althea wouldn't like it.”

“But…” I swallow. No tears. “…where will I go?”

Again, she points.

“
Please—anywhere
but there!”

Hana shrugs, her face an emotionless mask. “You'll scare people away if you stay here on the street. Go to the Saints—or go
somewhere! Anywhere!”

“I want to go home!”

Hana sighs heavily. Hangs her head and shakes it. “The Orthella is no longer your home, Naia. You've been
let go—”

“I've known no place else—Yarne raised me! She was my mother before Althea took her place—before Althea ran the Orthella into the ground!”

Every silkhouse had a house mother. The woman who provides. Who collects patron donations and uses it to feed her girls and keep them wonderfully outfitted. To keep the house clean and presentable. Yarne was giving—generous. She was the Orthella's first house mother and a true mother to girls who had gone without. But with Yarne's death came Althea, her frugal daughter. Who was altogether cold and unforgiving. Girls started disappearing the moment she became house mother, as our patrons dwindled down to none.

“I thought…” I choke—my voice uncertain. Wobbly. “…I thought this would always be my home…”

A silkhouse never let a girl go—it couldn't. After years upon years of training within the house as a songstress—the beautiful gowns brought, the instruments, the make up; a girl owed the house mother a lifetime of gold and silver—she could never leave freely. And kicking her out would hurt the silkhouse tenfold. Joining a house—or being forced into duty—was a lifetime affair. The silkhouse became your home, the other songstresses your sisters.
The Orthella was my home. It was all I knew.

It
is
all I know.

I drop to my knees. Mouth open, arms choking my zither. “Hana—
please…”

Saying her name strikes a chord, and she turns ashen despite the rose dabbed upon her cheeks.

But she is silent. Rakes me with eyes that swim in sorrow.

She can do nothing. Nothing at all. Though Hana is Althea's right hand in everything the older woman does, no matter how much she likes a person or wishes no ill-will upon them; here she is, helpless. Completely and utterly helpless.

Just as I am.

But I push myself onto my feet. I look down the wide street of the quarter.
This was attached to a whole city.

I've never ventured past this block. Not even in my off time. Everything is new to me—and this is only one street in the whole of Felicity.
Only one.

There are probably thousands.

Someone has to take me in. Someone.

Hana shoots her arm out. Opens her palm. In the center is a tiny black purse. “I've been saving it for—” she averts her eyes down. Brings them back up. “—well it doesn't matter now, does it?” she smiles, slowly—as if she's afraid to. My heart skips a beat. “Go on, take it. You—of all the people Althea has let go, well—I fought for you. Really—I did—but she plans on shutting the place down. She's got these crazy notions that Felicity won't exist in a couple months. War—” Hana shakes her head. “—she's crazy. And the moment she realizes no war's happening—I'll find you and make sure you come back.”

Hana smiles when I take the pouch. When I open the collar of my slip and tuck it into my breast band.

“Home, Naia—it's right here. It always will be.
Home,
Naia.”

…

Home.

I can't help checking. Over and over, I whip around—just to make sure the Orthella is still there. All black stones stark against a brightening sky. Closer now, is the Saints—a brothel. One place that is not down on its luck. As I shuffle past, a single moan wades upon a breeze of the morning and I pull my shoulders up to my ears. The chill makes me shiver. The noise makes me blush.

I did not belong in a place like that.

No girl did.

But the apprentices that Althea turned out often went there for shelter. For work. I could not imagine what they did to keep their place. To eat and to keep a roof over their heads. But now that I'm in the same position, I can see why they'd turn to a brothel. It would be easy for girls like us to get a place there. Songstresses—even without their make-up—had an otherwordly beauty to them. Hair down to our ankles, a lonely spirit which grazed all of us. Somehow, that meant beauty and coupled with musical talent—that meant a livelihood.

But not anymore. The Orthella was the only silkhouse in this quarter of the city. But Felicity was a large city—it's own country, almost. So, perhaps…

Maybe I could find another.

At this idea, I grin. My arms relax around my zither as I step upon the flagstones. Soon, the Saints becomes a dizzy memory as I round a gray corner into another part of the quarter. One with multicolored bazaars propped up against teetering buildings. A sign shoved between the flagstones reads:
Shopper's Row
. I murmur the name to myself as I zigzag through the sleeping marketplace, the pathway growing narrower and narrower as the street squeezes—walls creeping over me.

It is now when I hear deep whispers. The short whinny of a clip-clopping horse, with carriage wheels singing upon the flagstones. They come from behind me.

As the street tightens and the road goes on and on—the horse and carriage come closer. The unfamiliar voices close in. The world spins and my heart jumps into my throat as I fear that they will continue on—trampling me. Behind me, the large beast snorts.

It comes to a clip-clopping stop.

“Arvel, boy—thought you had gotten used to these tiny streets.” a man, raspy. The grizzled voice of an elder.

The beast taps my head with its slimy snout. I squeak, holding the zither to my chest tighter.

“I think there's someone up there—”

“Who in their right mind would stop on these streets? Excuse me!”

I freeze. I dare not move as boots fall to the flagstones.

My arms tremble. The zither clatters against me.

“Are you lost?” Another voice, younger. A boy.

“She ain't lost—she's one of those whores. Running away, eh?” a hard hand grasps me. Spins me around. “Wearing nothing but a shift—how daring. What're you in for, darling?”

A weathered map of a face. Tanned. Almond shaped eyes sit upon his face like holes cut into cardboard. A wooden pipe juts from the corner of his mouth, smoke rising from it. Jerkin and breeches are tobacco stained.

I've only seen men adorned in crisp cloth-of-gold. Old men. The Orthella's patrons resembled wise men draped in supple cotton surcoats. The clothing of the east, Lore told me once. The lawless east. The only people who lived and worked in Felicity were sellers—sellers of two things: bodies and souls.

I wondered which one this man sold, as he stared me up and down. He evaluates me. Fixes my face into his mind.

“What a pretty runaway you are, too.” a smile that does not meet his narrowed eyes. “Boy—c'mere and meet this pretty young thing.”

A young man scampers over. He resembles his father—but only comes up to the elder's torso. Chestnut hair swirls about his head, like amber clouds. His clothing resembles his father's, but without the tobacco stains. His tunic is stark white. He peers at me—I peer back.

I clutch my zither to my chest.

“How old are you, girl?”

My eyes flicker, my gaze coming to the older man. “I don't know, sir.”

He
harrumphs
.
Brings his hand to meet his hairy chin and scratches it. “You're a polite one. You know how much the Saints gives us for you runaways?”

“Six pieces.” the little boy smiles. “Gets me exactly—”

“Gets us
nothing
is what!” the older man hisses. Spits the pipe from his lip and catches it.

I breathe, “The Saints pays for…?”

Black eyes meet mine. They are hard. Evil. “The Saints pays for girls who run away. For girls who decide the whoring life isn't for them. You one of those girls?”

My mouth drops. I shake my head.

Softly, the man chuckles. He pockets the pipe. “Course not, that's what they all say. Yuka—get the rope!”

The young man clambers towards the carriage as my eyes widen—I catch my breath—
rope?
What did they intend to do? “I'm not a Saints' girl!” I tell him—face reddening. “I'm not—I
swear!”

When the boy jumps from the carriage, a rope of tight yellow threads in his hand, the elder smiles. Blackened teeth sprout from his mouth like ugly flowers. “Something you can do to persuade us, darling? Something you can
give
us?”

I hold my zither to my chest. I hug it—my eyes stare.

There was nothing—
nothing. An inkling creeps up my spine at what he must be asking for. My body. That's what he wants. I think to run, but I'm not faster than a horse, and the street only becomes more narrow. Only squeezes more. He'd catch me. I'd trip.

I want to go home.

The man holds out his hand. Twitches the fingers upon his palm. “Ten pieces.”

Of what?

I've never handled money in my life. But I have some. I fish the purse from my bra band and open it. One gold piece. Ten bronze.
Hana's savings.
I hesitate.

“Can you count, girl? Course not. Only thing you girls are good for is spreading your legs.
Here.”

He snatches the gold piece. Takes the ten bronze pieces and smiles at his work. He bites the gold piece upon his black teeth. My shoulders lower as I hide the empty purse in my bra band. I sigh. My head lowers.

“You going to need that instrument, girl?” he asks. Touches his finger to the wood. “That's a pretty piece of equipment. Wouldn't want the Saints knowing you stole it, huh?”

I look to the long body of the zither held tight in my arms. This was my little piece of home. My past. This was Lore and the others. My sisters. This was Yarne—my first house mother—when I looked at it in the right light. This was my happiness—a part of me.

This was all I had to remind me of happier days.

This was it.

A songstress without her zither was simply a girl with a pretty voice. Nothing—
nothing.

Without it—
without my zither—

My eyes snap to his. I bite my lip. “No.” I take a step back, moving the zither to my side as I put out a hand. The palm faces him. “This—this is
mine.”

“Well that's too bad.” the man sighs, the boy at his side snaps the rope straight between his two hands. “Might as well get her, boy.”

The child races at me, rope in hand. A knife dangles from his leather belt as he pumps his legs. It glints.

I rise onto my toes and sprint.

The road dashes by me. All gray. Some white. A vicious blur that zooms by. The boy is at my heels—nips and lashes with the rope. He uses it like a whip. Like he's used to this game. Chasing whores. Chasing women disenchanted with their lives.

But I'm not one of them.

He gains on me. The moment the corridor forks three ways, I sprint forward only to double back and take a street to my right. This slows him—but he roars. A tiny monster licks at my heels—he's huffing and puffing, panting like fire is exploding from his lungs—when, far behind him, the hooves of a horse clatter upon the stones of the street. I turn into an alleyway when a great beast whinnies, a carriage goes thundering—sliding into the squeezing walls of the alleyway as everything within it pours to the ground. The boy's father drives the wild horse as it careens onto the ground with an explosion of timber and steel. The animal screams—the boy screams with it. I hurl myself over a large wooden box beside an alleyway door and I think I've made it. I think I'm free—but a rope catches around my ankle. It snakes and tightens.

My chest slams into the box. My zither barely missing the tumble as I hold it above my head.

This is my only memory. My only piece of home.

They cannot have it.

But the boy is strong. He pulls and pulls and the father scrambles from the mess he has made with the horse and carriage. Their strength has become combined and I can do nothing as I hold the zither above my head—as my chest slams upon the ground and my teeth jitter in their sockets. My zither goes sliding across the flagstones as I cling to a stone that juts from the street.

I scream.

Birds leave their perches. I hear their black wings beat against the air.

As the alleyway door is flung open. It moans on its hinges. A woman's face peers out. She couldn't have been no older than me.

Emerald eyes glare at me—then follow the rope to my captors.

She disappears into the doorway, only to come rushing back with a wide silver knife.

“Get away!” she shrieks, brandishing it erratically—like a tree spurned by wind. “Let her go you damned slave catchers—I don't condone slavery here—leave her be and get away!”

The pulling stops. I reach out to grab my zither.

“She
belongs
to the Saints.” the old man shrieks back.

“People don't belong to people.”

When the rope slacks, I scramble up. “I'll tell Kapua you're harboring his girls! He doesn't take kindly to
thieves.
You'll be giving your life—all for your ideals? For this whore you've never met?”

Red hair flashes like flame when the woman bends down to slice the rope from my ankle. But for the few seconds she is blind-sighted, the old man roars as he rushes at her—sprints with a wiry fist aimed for her face.

The boy flashes a knife and throws it to the old man. He catches it. Grips it in both hands. Aims the blade down.

He goes for her skull.

I heft my zither over my shoulder. It's heavy. A fine instrument. A beautiful voice.

My only piece of home.

I slam it into the old man's stomach. The instrument splinters. Cracking in two. Sighing its high-pitched song—it's final breath. The old man staggers. Chokes on his breath.