Chris Wooding - The Fade

Not long afterward I emerge from the shadows of the machinery next to the furnaces, where Nereith is shovelling fuel. He sees me, makes no reaction. Hands me an extra shovel. I get to work. None of the others say a word.

I'm back. But not for long.

Fortune favours me. Overseer Arachi's office is buried among a small tangle of badly lit and narrow corridors. I try the first door I come to, eager to avoid the returning slave. It's a storeroom, piled with dusty sacks of spores, pots of dried spice and barrels of wine. There is a torch in the bracket, but it's unlit. Perfect.

I close the door behind me. The line of light around the edge is just enough to see by. In the near-darkness, I strip and undo the parcel of clothes. It's a red dress, made of light material, the sleeves and collar decorated with gold thread. I slip it on and adjust it. The fit is good. Nereith even had them spray it with scented water in the laundry room. Nice touch. It's a little crumpled, but it's been well folded and the material doesn't crease easily. Gravity should iron out the rest.

I have to keep a low profile wearing this thing. There are a lot of new slaves arriving in advance of the Elder's visit, so strangers won't be suspected, but if the slave who owns this dress should catch me, it's over. That aside, my presence should remain unnoticed. What other possible reason could an Eskaran woman have to be in a Gurta fort, unless she was a slave? Also, my age gives me a certain seniority which should deflect any casual probing from the younger girls. Since slaves are exclusively taken when very young, it will be assumed that I have been one all my life.

Disguises work, in my experience, because people are not naturally suspicious. The thought of a prisoner walking among them is too far-fetched to consider; but if I should draw attention to myself, then the ruse will unravel.

I have slippers too. As I put them on, I notice that my nails need clipping.

Suddenly I'm struck by an absurd stab of nostalgia. For the parties, the balls, the concerts of the aristocracy; for Casta and Liss and all their bizarre and eccentric friends; for the lights of Veya. Wearing something nice, being even partially clean, leaves me with a desperate longing for home and for the life I had.

I can't believe how low I've fallen, that the faintest of luxuries is so precious to me. I take a breath, steady myself. Better. I bundle up my worn and stained black clothes and hide them in a corner of the room, then I untie my newly washed hair and comb it out with my fingers. Should be passable, at least. Gurta dress their slaves well and they like them neat: a slave's appearance reflects on her master. I'm a little ragged, but it'll have to do.

I open the door and step out, my stomach fluttering. I adopt a confident bearing as I walk, putting purpose into my steps. I'm a slave on her way to do something important. Don't bother me.

I walk through cramped corridors of bare stone, lit by torches. I pass more storage rooms, disused and cobwebbed. This is a neglected corner of the fort, then, little visited. The Overseer's task must really be a thankless one if his office is back here. I wonder who he offended in the past, whose sister he dishonoured, which of the Laws he broke.

I come to a door at the end of the corridor. My intuition tells me that the fort proper lies beyond: I'm leaving the safety of these forgotten thoroughfares. I open the door, step through, and I'm immediately accosted with a sharp demand for attention.

~ Slave! ~

Though my heart jumps, the surprise doesn't show on the outside. I calmly halt and turn. There's a young Gurta scholar approaching me, long hair framing narrow, sly features. A velvet robe sways around his ankles. I suddenly remember Nereith's warning about the complex rituals of the slave girls, their particular Gurta dialect. If you're caught, they'll see through you in an instant.

I feel a quick tremble of panic run through me. Then it's too late to do anything about it, and I have to act.

I sketch the Form Of Abject Subservience with my hand, bobbing down a little on my knees and ankles as I do so. ~ Ruler Of My Will, I exist to meet your command ~ I breathe, eyes lowered.

He peers at me closely. ~ I don't recognise you ~ he says, but the tone is curious rather than suspicious.

~ I arrived only last turn, Master. It is my honour to attend the dignitaries arriving for the Elder's visit ~

His authority asserted, he dismisses my reply. ~ I sent one of your companions to fetch me fresh ink and paper. She hasn't returned yet ~ he says, indignantly. ~ My work can't be delayed like this ~

~ I am shamed by my sister's failure ~ I tell him. ~ I shall investigate immediately. You will not be delayed any longer ~

~ See that I'm not ~ he snaps, and walks away without waiting for the Affirmation of Obedience.

I head the other way. My pulse is gradually slowing. I have no intention of attending to his problem. He's simply impatient. Whichever slave he charged with the task would rather cut her own hand off than fail him; I've little doubt that she's already at his door, waiting for his return.

But my disguise worked. I'd hoped it would, but I'd still had grave doubts. Maybe I wouldn't remember the rituals, maybe my dialect was rusty, maybe things had changed in the twenty-eight years since my rescue.

Impersonating a slave isn't so hard when you used to be one. Confident now, I begin to search. I've primed myself with the names of various scholars and dignitaries that I learned from the guards, so I can concoct false errands if anyone questions me. And I can always pretend to be lost: I am new here, after all. But I found out a long time ago that the best way to stay unmolested is to appear busy: most people won't interrupt you if they think you're in the midst of a task for someone else. So I balance my demeanour between stridency and submission, and I begin to scout out the world beyond my prison.

Farakza isn't the height of Gurta luxury. It's a fort: crude and bare. I've served in places of embarrassing opulence, towers in the sky like frozen paint-drop splashes, one within another, reaching higher and higher and dotted with lights. There, everything was marble; golden ewers glittered by the side of steaming baths; circular libraries rose, balcony upon balcony. I remember attending music recitals that made my skin prickle with the emotions they inspired. They have such an eye for beauty, these people; yet for every admirable aspect of their society, there's an ugly one. Cultured in some ways and backward in others. They both crush and adore their women. They write poems and lays of wrenching beauty and yet they are the most savage and brutal and callous people I've ever known.

For all that this is a functional place, some areas have been built with a little more elegance. These are the scholars' quarters: studies, bedchambers and tiny libraries. Here they're more given to flourishes: decorative panelling, smart cornices, fluted stone jambs. There are shinestones in sculpted brackets, held in the hands of stone Elders.

I start to see people in the corridors: scholars, guards, slaves. It's the slaves who worry me most. Running into the owner of this dress would be bad luck, but I'm afraid I might meet the zaze, the slave matriarch. As a new slave, I should be reporting to her for assignment and not wandering the corridors. If I'm stopped, awkward questions could be asked.

Safer to avoid the slaves altogether. I'll not stay in the dormitory, and I'll keep out of their communal areas. They'll assume I'm the personal slave of a visiting dignitary and that I sleep in their quarters, or even as their bed-partner. In a society where men's urges towards their own women are strictly repressed, Eskaran slaves are a valuable commodity. No laws of propriety apply. They can do what they like.