Day 9: The Andethyst Incident ( Chapter I )

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Filth doesn't drop from the sky. Between the clouds and the ground there was nothing which could tarnish the rain. Until the moment it touched the streets, the water was as pure as when it first was formed.
The filth came from people. It festered all over Nadine. Invisible to the naked eye, most of the time. When it rained, though, the filth turned the water brown. Flushing between the cobblestones like gravy. The stench made the rats flee.

People lived in Nadine all right. During the day they walked shoulder to shoulder through the streets. During night they stood shoulder to shoulder inside. Yet even with the dense population in mind, the sheer layers of filth caking up every square inch of the city surface was nothing short of astounding. One might suppose that Nadine was populated only by people made of filth all the way through.
One might suppose right.

A single figure trudged through the labyrinthian alleyways. A woman. In her forties, perhaps, yet in exceptional physical form. The rain pattered across the heavy fabrics of her brown cloak.
The streets were empty but for her, yet she looked exactly where she belonged. That’s how she liked it. That’s how she tried to appear.
She didn’t peer behind to check for pursuers. Nor did she press herself close to the wall. She didn’t change her pace abruptly. She didn’t stop before she reached her destination.

Filth, she thought to herself. If she could just imagine herself as the filth that pooled in the water downhill, then she’d fit right in. Filth all the way through.
For every alley she turned into, she discovered ever new forms of claustrophobia. They became narrower. More winding. Each turn sharper than the last, and more abrupt. Really, it was more like navigating a tunnel in a cave than a settlement where people were expected to live.

She stopped short of an oak door embedded in the wall. By no means was it clear which building it led to, but it was the right door.
She rapped the wood with the knuckle of her middle finger. Two slow knocks, then a pause, then three rapid ones.

No answer. She remained out in the drizzling.
She tried again. Two slow knocks, then a pause, then three rapid ones.
“That’s not the password.” A voice mumbled faintly from the other side.
“It’s the password they gave me.” She hissed.
“We changed it, you dittwim. That’s the old password. Get the new one.”
Clenching her teeth, the woman reached into her cloak all the way back, gripping the hilt of her sword.
“My patience is running thin.” She commanded in her full booming voice, “Open up. Now.”
In short order, a series of metallic rattling was heard from the other side, and the door slid open with a creak.

“Ah, Catalina. Sorry, m’lady. Real sorry. Didn’t know it was you, m’lady.” The bald man in a stained tanktop peeked out from beyond the crack in the door.
Catalina pulled the door the rest of the way open and stormed inside, “It’s Fennel.”
The door slammed shut behind her.

“Right. But of course. Fennel.” The man slipped behind the bar, “Care for a drink?”
No answer. She walked past him in silence, towards the stairs. At least here she could enjoy a respite from the weather, yet the floor was even coarser than the cobblestone outside, and much more uneven. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she walked into a stable. But she was all too aware that no noble beasts were housed there.
Whether young or old, the men in the establishment were haggard and crude, with patchy beards and greasy overgrown hair. They clustered by the candlelit tables near the walls, pretending not to follow the woman known as Fennel with their eyes. Some of them clutched their arms around their opaque bottles, as if protecting their treasure.
Filth all the way through, she thought to herself as she climbed the stairs. A resounding creak lingered for each step she took.

On the second floor, the colourful decor of the hallway had turned bleak in the dim light. Although no single spot of torn wallpaper or faded paint was discernible from where she stood, it was impossible not to notice the accumulated signs of wear that the interior must have endured throughout the years, especially by the edges of the window frames. And yet the contrast to downstairs was striking. At its heart, the hallway was no different from the numerous manors in which she had dined with lords and kings.
From translucent windows whose arcs reached up to the ceiling, faint light spilled past the trailing curtains, landing on the wall where the doors were lined. A plum-coloured carpet reached all the way to the end of the hallway, embroidered with large complex patterns. The wallpapers were white and peach, each colour making up both elaborate flowers and the negative space surrounding them, swapping seamlessly with regular intervals.

The striking silhouette of her shadow fell on the doors as she strode past them. One after another. The mail on her boots rattled heavily with each step. The doors were painted pastel green, each one having a flower engraved on it. She passed the lily one. She passed the petunia one. Rose.
Then she stopped. Before her was a door with a branch of cherry blossom engraved upon it. She lingered before the door. There was the knob, yet all she could do was stare. But she could stare only long enough to affirm there was no chance she could walk back. Her hand reached towards the knob, but the door withdrew before she had the chance to touch it.

“Why, good evenin’, darlin’. Don’t be a stranger.“ Said the barefooted woman slumped against the doorframe. She offered Catalina a smirk, one which confidence made up for its lethargy. Her fiery-red hair, long enough to reach the floor, was draped around her scalp much like how Catalina’s cloak was draped around her shoulders. A single baby-blue eye peered from beyond the beautifully cascading waterfall of crimson, in spite of each strand obeying its own path.
“Right...” Was all Catalina could muster.
She had to steel her gaze, lest her gaze wander downwards. The woman before her wore a dress made from fabrics so soft and light it appeared as a cream-coloured fog floating along her skin. So loosely did it hang from her wiry yet shapely frame that it was for her sheer **** of will it did not drop to the floor. Catalina had no idea why that woman wore a dress clearly too big for her, but then wondered if any woman existed for which it wouldn’t fall off.

Catalina slipped past, and was immediately struck by the scent of herbs and dried flowers from the decorative netted balls hanging off the ceiling, above the door and near the stained bed. The red-haired woman gently slid the door shut behind them. With the bed taking up half the room, it would have been cozy for one person. For two, it was positively cramped. Catalina had seen prison cells spacier than that, but the hostess made the most of the limited space at her disposal. The wallpapers were of earthy colours, some of which appeared to blend with the hostess’s dress. There was no wardrobe in sight. Instead, one of the corners was veiled off by a foldable screen over which various changes of clothing hung. An unpainted dresser doubled as a desk, on top of which a handglass lay upside down along with a ledger, a deck of cards and a copper vase with unassuming forest flowers. Adjacent to the dresser was a wicker cabinet which housed various bottles of wine and liquor, along with the chalices in which they were meant to be served.