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weep. “Don’t let them hurt me, please, don’t
let them…”
    “I won’t hurt you,” said Caina. “I…”
    “Here, now,” said a gruff voice. “What is this?
Begging is illegal.”
    Caina turned, and saw a stout man approaching. He was
about twenty-five, and unlike the slaves and the beggars, he looked
well-fed. He wore gleaming chain mail beneath a jerkin of black
leather, and a scimitar rested at his belt. A steel badge pinned to
his jerkin showed a hand holding a coiled, thorn-studded whip.
    The sigil of the Slavers’ Brotherhood of
Istarinmul.
    This man was a Collector, one of the Brotherhood’s
lowest ranks, a hunter who ranged about seeking new slaves for the
Brotherhood’s markets.
    Or one who kidnapped solitary foreigners from the
docks.
    Such as Caina.
    “His eyes,” said Caina.
    “Eh?” said the Collector, surprised. “What about
them?”
    “Is he sick?” said Caina.
    “What?” said the Collector. “No, he’s addicted to
wraithblood.”
    “What is wraithblood?” said Caina, watching for the
Collector’s associates.
    “A drug,” said the Collector. “The poor and other
such vermin prefer it. Apparently it gives visions of dead loved
ones and other such rot. Eventually it drives its users insane and
turns their eyes blue.” He swept a thick arm over the street.
“You’ll see hundreds of them here. The Padishah ought to have them
killed and spare honest men the stench.”
    “Indeed,” said Caina. The Collector was looking at
her with barely concealed greed. A plan, hard and cold, came
together in her mind. “Which way to the Cyrican Quarter? I’ve
messages to deliver.”
    “Why, right that way,” said the Collector. “Head up
the street with the warehouses and take a right turn at the public
fountain. You will come to the Cyrican Bazaar shortly.”
    In between her frenetic exercise sessions and
throwing knives at the mast, Caina had taken the time to memorize a
map of Istarinmul. The Collector’s directions were wrong.
    Likely leading her into a trap.
    “Thank you,” said Caina, and she left without another
word.
    She counted to twenty, and then glanced over her
shoulder to see the Collector hastening away, no doubt to warn his
friends.
    The old beggar stared at her, his strange eyes full
of terror.
    Caina looked over the other beggars and saw many like
the old man, their eyes transformed to that pale blue color.
    And from every one of them she felt the faint hint of
a sorcerous aura.
    Strange. Very strange. But Caina had more immediate
concerns at the moment.
    She turned the corner and walked down the street
lined with warehouses. It was deserted at the moment.
    The perfect place to make a foreigner disappear into
a slaver’s inventory.
    Caina considered for a moment, then went to one of
the warehouses. The masonry was rough, and she found ample
handholds and footholds. A moment later she climbed to the roof,
and jumped from warehouse to warehouse, taking care to avoid the
skylights.
    No one ever looked up.
    She jumped to the last warehouse, dropped down, and
crawled to the edge of the roof. The street ended in a square
surrounded by three towering, rickety tenements of whitewashed
brick. A small fountain occupied the center of the square, and the
place looked deserted.
    Save for the four men in black leather jerkins
waiting there. One of them carried a net, and another a set of iron
shackles. Their plans for Caina were clear enough. Likely they
planned to sell her to the mines, or perhaps to the fighting
pits.
    She felt a flicker of grim amusement as she imagined
their reaction once they learned they had kidnapped a woman. Caina
was not unattractive, and she knew how to dress and carry herself
to appear pleasing to the eyes of men, but the massive scar across
her belly would keep them from selling her to some nobleman’s
harem. Likely they would sell her as a kitchen drudge or a domestic
servant, and such slaves commanded far lower prices than strong
backs for the