Chapter 5

Day Two – Dawn

“Nene,” said Sagir in his native tongue. “Nene, wake up.”

He knelt beside his grandmother’s bed, put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. His motions and eyes were tired, and slow. The same old and unwashed tunic he always wore was held together by a brighter cloth belt he just tied.

The first rays of light filled the room and the Sun Maiden kissed the old woman awake. “Günaydın, my light,” she said half-asleep. A life of routine made her get up, but Sagir’s hands were a welcome help.

“Günaydın, Nene. We have to go, I overslept,” said Sagir in a rush. He had his grandmother’s cheap excuse for a kaftan and veil readied. It was hard to get by authentic fashion of their homelands, so they made do with whatever they had. Many wore the same clothes as the beyazı did, but Nene made her own and she did it well.

Sagir had brought them into a precarious situation, but there was no time to explain. On a normal day, they would have drank and ate some leftovers. Get washed and dressed before sunrise, so that they could leave the house with the bells. If they were out before the curfew, the same kind of trouble as of last night might occur. But being late for work was just as bad.

“You were out late, I was so worried,” said Nene. She caressed Sagir’s face with much care, looking deep into his eyes. She was happy to see him. “Were you out with Ceyhan? Where is he?”

“He is already gone, Nene. Here–” Sagir helped her dress. “The sun is rising, we need to go.”

The one-room shack they called their home was nothing anybody would call big. Made from planks nobody else would buy, hammered together with junk nails and furnished with oddments. Heating came from a small stove that couldn’t last an entire night. A small table with stools and two beds with one hammock that was still swinging.

The second bed had no covers, no straw mattress, no hay-bundle and no warmth. An old rug with an improperly knitted motif of two elderly parents caring for the Sun. The man dressed in all white and the woman in all red. The roles of the main celestial bodies were reversed in Yesilian culture, yet similar.

On it rested a shirt, trousers, shoes, a belt and a striped turban, folded into human shape. On the headboard, remnants of molten wax made their way to the ground. Sleeves wrapped around a sturdy quarterstaff, carved with foreign letters and symbols.

There was no time to be sad, though. Torn between her tardiness, his tiredness and the subliminal terror of being late, there was only one option; press on. Return the favor to Nene from when Sagir was but a child, new to this life of bondage. She had been in Teblen for so long and taught so many new arrivals the ropes, that nobody in their community would forgive Sagir if he let her down. They might not be of blood, but damned did he love her. As did Ceyhan.

“Come, take a sip,” he said and lifted a cup to her lips. “We’ll eat some bread on the way.”

They hurried out and Sagir wrapped his arms around her shoulders so that she would not get lost or left behind. Nene was such a small woman and grew only smaller with each year. Breathing was hard with the dry bread stuffed into his cheeks. Looking for his own steps and Sagir guided Nene, as well as making sure that she ate. Doing both at the same time wasn’t an easy task. But all others in Yeşil Street had already left. The houses were empty, except for those who had the rare luxury of being exempt.

The journey to their mistress’ spinning shop led them northwest to the second main road through Westwatch, Sheann’s Burn. Named after a famous resident, Moonshine Sheann, who caused the Great Fire of 366. Fifty years ago, soon, on the day of Fire Festival. Sagir held his head low and made no eye contact. Gladly, there was no need to tell this to Nene, it was second nature to her. And as she lived more and more in the past these days, the most solidified habits were the ones that stuck.

One patrol of guards, on their last round of the night shift, were what they needed to avoid. A blessing in disguise, the last shift was better than the first shift in the morning. Motivation was low, folks were tired. But not tired enough for one last stop, it seems. Fortunately, Sagir and his Nene were not their victim, but another poor soul. Some stranger in rugged clothes lay out cold in his own vomit. Perhaps he had an even better night than Zaber had, thought Sagir. All could’ve ended worse, it seems.

“Oğlum, it is quite bright,” said Nene. Her gaze wandered without aim. “Are we late?” she panted.

“We are.” Sagir smiled at her. “I overslept, Nene. I am sorry, but we need to hurry.”

They crossed an older man in his undergarments. He emptied his chamber pot into the gutter in the middle of the street. When least expected, his hand reached for Sagir and nearly made him trip. “Speak Albinian!” yelled the man. Sagir and his Nene tried to move on in silence, but the man’s wrath had been awakened. His mustache trembled when he screamed: “Are you ignoring me?! Who’s your master?!”

Sagir’s steps slowed down until he came to a halt. His shoulders shivered from the words thrown at his back. He stared at the ground, his facial muscles clenched and eyes closed. They were losing precious time. The guards looked at them and fear spread through Sagir’s stomach. A fear that only stopped when he felt Nene’s warm body move. The young man’s eyes opened when he heard the voice of his beloved old caretaker.

“I beg forgiveness,” said Nene. She danced the dance that kept her alive for decades. Bowed down meek and submissive. No stutter, even though she had not mastered the language of her owners after half a century. “Grandson does not know better. He young and foolish. I will handle him and pass advice to mistress and master, so they decide for punish.”

Describing the man in his undergarment as affluent or snobbish would have been a lie, no matter the attitude. His clothes were as dirty as Sagir’s and the house he stood in front of was in desperate need of mending. The man was a true exemplar of Westwatch, as he poured away the last drop of his night’s piss and waved them off, grumbling.

For Sagir, this was the first smile of the day; moments like this showed him that he still had years left with Nene, good years even. There was no reason to trust their mistress’ and her husband’s good will, but as long as she functioned, she was safe. They also reached the only part of town where they could ease down for a moment. Zaber and Torm were still, for sure, asleep at this early. But if another arsehole would act up now, he only needed to cause a lot of commotion to wake them. A big enough fuss would lure them outside and scare whoever dared touch him away. Folk knew that the heathen that occupied it was unpredictable and dangerous. Or at least, that is what proper folk believed. Some of them had heard the defiler was close to the Yesilian community. For reasons that Sagir kept secret from his Nene. For Ceyhan’s memory’s sake. But most importantly, only a few knew that he and Zaber were involved directly. Nobody would assume a bum would knock them around because of him.

That moment was over too fast. The Watch became visible right around the corner, after turning into Magpie’s. Where Ruins Street was the part of town Sagir could be most at ease, the quarter’s namesake was where his shoulders became painfilled.

Men, women and children alike left their homes and started their daily routines. Sagir remembered that his father thought the gatekeepers to be as lackluster as many thought the watchmen of Teblen. Another thing that the subjects of the Albinian King had in common with the Sultan’s of Devleti Yeşilin. But for his kin, every beyazı was dangerous and the guards double so.

Over two hundred lived in bondage in Teblen and many more were born by the day. Brought as prisoners of war from the First and Second Yesilian Crusade. Only those whose masters were of noble birth or part of the Guild Council were spared from the thugs-under-banner. One of their own, a girl named Dağı, was bound to the colonel’s household. Rumors had it, he was the only one who saw real battle and was thus rewarded this position. Members of their community like her and Kovada kept the Maǧlis informed. For this great service, special privileges were a given. Ceyhan used to be among them too and Sagir himself got some benefits for staying close to Zaber. The violent stranger had proven to be a most valuable asset, second only to Madam Marghe, their sole true ally in these foreign lands.

The windows were open to let in the fresh spring air, but no guards were around Westwatch or it’s stables. Some recruits or servants without arms walked around the workshop. They were too hectic and concerned with themselves to even look at Sagir and his Nene. The old woman was swifter on her feet now that she had a wake-up call. Sagir drove her through the streets as quick as possible, looking outto not make her trip. Or to look suspicious.

They entered Kreitz, marked by an old border stone, and the paved paths soon looked better. Their mistress and master loved to tell the story of their family. Kreitz used to be a separate village, from which they stemmed, making their spinnery one of the oldest in Teblen. And when Sagir and his Nene finally reached this oh so old business, a heavy burden was lifted from the young man’s shoulders. It was still closed, nobody came before them.

The Yanners, the family who owned this shop, lived right above it. A tall, four-story half-timbered house with Lecture verses painted along the beams. They blessed it with longevity and it had nice red tiles. Pots with flowers and sage hung from all seven windows above ground level. Two for each room of the narrow build, with one for the attic. Their guild sign was a handcrafted carving of a yarnball. The strings spelled out their family name in the common script.

A barely body-wide passage between the neighboring house led to a cramped backyard. It had its own gutter to the city’s sewage system and another gardening patch for more herbs. Hidden between some planks was a key. If it were ever found missing, the mistress made sure that Sagir and his Nene knew who the prime suspects were. If they wanted to keep their hands and fingers, they better make sure it never got stolen by anyone.

As expected of them, they came in first to bring the shop in order, so that work could begin when the real folk arrived. Nene was charged with setting up the spinning wheels and Sagir had to clean the front. Make sure the samples, dyes, and wool were rolled out, and make everything presentable. The rest of the day was spent running errands and doing all the heavy lifting that neither the mistress, her husband, son, nor daughters wanted to do.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

First to arrive was Sula with her daughter, a frail but tall blonde that just hit her thirtieth. She wore the same style of dress every day, with tinned buttons instead of lacings. A rather fashionable choice, with the edges of her petticoat peeking out at the wrists and collar, tucked and with self-made cutwork. She owned at least three of them; brown, green and ochre. But Nene swore that she had seen her in a bright red one on a holiday Lecture.

She and her daughter wore matching bonnets. Leda, the girl, was in a plain-colored dress with plenty room to further grow. She was on the brink of becoming a woman and had her mother’s height and hair. But it was apparent that she was a better eater and quite healthy.

“Good. Morrow. Cildir,” said Sula, slowly, to Nene. “Are. You. Done. Threading?” Her voice was loud enough to be heard the other room over.

Leda stood in silence behind her. When the old woman greeted them with a bow she returned the courtesy, donning a shy smile.

Four spinning wheels with small stools, placed in the barren backroom of the shop. A lamp flickered on a cabinet with tools to spare. Little space was left, barely enough to walk and work. The rest of the floor was covered with raw wool and flax, some of which was already dyed.

“Yes, Misses Sula,” said Çıldır. She lowered her head and pointed at the devices. Fiddling around with the spindles and other moving parts to show that they were ready to go.

“Very good.” Sula spoke to her daughter at a normal pace and clapped once. She turned, nodded and smiled at Leda and directed her at one of the stools. “Let’s start, Mistress Yanner expects us to finish before Noon. And I want to visit Sonora’s Market for supper.” Her posture was straight and decent, her experienced hands and feet got the spinning wheel moving fast. She even found the time to correct Leda’s pose and demeanor. Assured that her eyes wouldn’t wander off or become unfocused.

“Be blessed by Father Sun,” cheered a muted voice that entered the door with a snap. “Sula.” An older, larger woman, with her salt and pepper hair braided at the ears, greeted her peers. She wore a barbette to cover her head and a white and azure dress that had been mended more than once and showed no skin. “Sunshine,” she added and smiled at Leda.

“Blessed be you.” Sula smiled back, toiling away as she spoke.

“Good Morrow, Misses Glenne,” said Leda meekly.

Glenne was a decade or more older than her colleague. She went straight for the equipment, running her fingers over every moving part. Rubbing all the threads, she even inspected the stool prepared for her. Curious moans and groans accompanied her acts. She knelt on the floor to assure that everything was right, with the old foreign woman waiting patiently in the only free corner of the room. When Glenne got up, her face turned ordinary.

“Good work, Cildir.”

Çıldır, the woman called Nene by those who loved her, only sat down and began to work after everyone else had taken a seat. She bowed down and was grateful for the praise from Glenne and made sure to do more good work. But never better than Misses Glenne or Misses Sula. It was a delicate line that she had perfected to balance in half century away from her homeland.

The bell in the shopfront chimed right after Çıldır took sat down and she heard the voices of her Oğlum and the young master. Sagir entered the backroom, carrying small crates that were filled with more spindles. Right behind him was an equally young man, with good and sturdy clothes and an embroidered felt cap. He wore it playfully skewed to the side, as it was the fashion among young men right now.

“Put them in the upper left one,” ordered the young man.

“Yes, young master.” Sagir did as he was told. Yes, young master.” Sagir did as he was told. After a quick rub of his finger-width long black hair, with the gruesome scar along the parting, he began.

The young master, meanwhile, strolled up to his mother’s employees.

“Be blessed by Father Sun, young master Paun”, said Glenne. She had tried to greet him as soon as he entered, but did not want to talk over him and shut her mouth again.

“Young master.” Sula poshed up. “Looking as fashionable as always.”

“Please,” smiled Paun. “I am not a master yet. Simply doing my mother’s busy work.” He winked flirtatious and ignored Çıldır. “How are the husbands, plenty work?”

“Ohh–” Glenne gasped and waved the question away. “Fine, everything’s fine. Konny’s hand is healing, I just need to get some extra work done.” A strategic gloom rose in her voice and the speed of her spinning wheel increased.

“Benno and our son are working on the new tilings of St. Willhardt in Munth. They–”, said Sula but was left aside.

“Haha, about time that old temple got a makeover. Mayhaps they’ll do Westwatch next, right?”, bawls Paun and everyone laughed. The older women laughed so loud that Leda’s giggle got burrowed. Even Çıldır chuckled, like the survivor she was, and her gaze pierced Sagir to fall in line. But he did not and turned his face away from the beyazı instead.

“So how is the little miss? She’s doing good?” Paun closed in on Sula and even more so on her daughter. He rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“A blooming flower,” said Sula and smiled. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the young master’s hand and his face.

“Nice,” smirked Paun and winked at Leda. “Well, as invigorating as it is to talk to all of you, someone has to look out for customers,” he said with one more sweep along the girl’s arm. “I’ll make sure to come back. Later.”

By the time Sagir finished, all darkness had been driven away by the sun. The chime of the door’s bell signaled plenty shoppers. Glenne ordered the young man with the gruesome scar to not waste any more oil and quench the lantern. But he had to put it down as fast as he picked it up when the young master’s head peeked into the room.

“Sagir, there are some folk who would like a word with you.”

Sagir’s eyes met those of his Nene. When the beyazı wanted something, following was the only option. It never meant anything good, either more work or they were not satisfied with finished work.

“Yes, master,” said Sagir and entered the shopfront. “What can I–” He ceased to speak and breathe, like a young deer. Left, right, and left again, he looked. His body screamed to run, but the only exit was behind him… and that was where Nene was. Two guards, in gambeson, kettle helmets and blunt-studded maces at their hips. They approached him. They even brought the sergeant and an officer of Westwatch. Sagir’s mouth hung open and there was no conscious thought behind his actions. Retreating, his fingers tore into the fabric on his skin.

“This is the man you are looking for, Lieutenant Leowig,” said Paun and stepped aside.

“Your family will be compensated by the Baronet,” said the lieutenant in a lyric tenor. Dressed in a fine, embroidered waistcoat, expensive riding boots and armed with a lavishly decorated sword. It’s scabbard only showed the crest of the city, a blue lake with a black castle-bridge, and his own: a patrician’s coat of arms, presenting the trade of his family. A red ship with three fishes above it. “Thank you for the cooperation,” he added, adjusting the fibula that showed his rank. “Arrest that murderous animal.” His voice was filling with revulsion as he gave the order.

The guards followed. Sagir tried to turn and run around a table displaying goods. But one of them had already thrown himself at the enslaved, with the other guard tripping him. None of it looked graceful, and Sagir was able to keep one foot on the ground. He knelt on his other leg and tried to drag himself through the room. The owner’s son kept a cautious distance, flinching at every rapid movement.

The moans and grunts and grumbles were only broken up by Sagir’s desperate voice. “What did I do?!” he cried. “I don’t know what’s going on! What did I do?!” He defied his assailants as good as possible, without raising a hand against them.

“Stop resisting,” commanded the guard that clung to his hip and dragged him to the ground. The other one, carrying shackles, tried to put them around Sagir’s wrists. Added to the racket were the foreign screams of an old woman, when Nene stormed into the shopfront.

“You cannot fool us,” said the lieutenant, bloodthirsty and cold. “Do you think you can get away with murdering one of my men?” He looked down on Sagir whose face was forced into the dust. Çıldır pulled and pushed on the guards with her thin, brittle hands. To no effect. “Sergeant, shut the hag up.”

The older guard wore a brand new gambeson, with an ornamented belt that bore an equally ornamented mace. He did not hesitate. The other women stood back in shock and watched their lesser’s futile attempts. Çıldır cried in a language none of them understood a single word in. She got kicked in the side by the sergeant and crashed into a table. Small flasks of dye samples spread around the room, some cracking.

Sagir just wanted to understand. He did everything in his might to not give them any more reason to brutalize him. But seeing what he saw and hearing what he heard was too much. He had been conditioned to survive, like his brethren and sistren, but enough was enough. This woman had raised him. Him and Ceyhan…

“Don’t touch my Nene!” He shook off the hands that tried to cuff him and slammed his elbow back to wiggle into freedom. Flailing, panting and slapping his backhands into the jaws of the guards around him, he reached the sergeant with a chaotic strike to his legs. And got his attention. “I will kill you! Don’t touch her!”

“You wish,” said the veteran guard. “You damned wish.” He held his mace in front of Sagir’s distorted face before swinging it at the back of his head, blowing the young man’s lights out. “Get this over with, dimwits.”

“Oğlum!” cried Nene. “Oğlum!” She stretched her arm as far as she could, to touch his fingers. Her vision began to blur. “Do not hurt! My son! My beloved!” Her hand began to cramp and went numb. “My heart!”

“Kalbim,” her screams faded away. “Yardım! Yardım!”

Her beloved Sagir slipped from her hand and got dragged away. She could barely see him and struggled for air. She choked up and slurred one last and loud “Kalbim”. Her eyes closed and left nothing but tears on the floor. “Kalbim…” The strength had left her, with one hand still searching for Sagir and the other clenched at her chest. Right at her heart.

“Kalbim–”