“So, he still won’t let you apprentice with my father, huh?”

Shifra turned to Qadi and nodded; her face tightened into a scowl. “He still treats me like a child.”

Shifra and Qadi walked down the main thoroughfare of Ativa, the capital of Ateya. A gust of cool wind made her glad she wore her knee-length jacket and striped trousers, crisp angles at the collar and in the front. It kept out the cold well enough and left her free to move about as she wished. If only her father allowed her the same. Her mother had tried to stop her from spending time with Qadi, but apart from physically restraining her, there wasn’t much she could do.

Qadi was dressed similarly to Shifra, but where Shifra’s striped trousers were blue, green, and white, Qadi’s were the gold and red of the Ladrivite tribe. With a glance down the street Shifra took notice that the trend of wearing trousers was growing among the younger generation.

“Nether it,” Qadi said, her hands tightening into fists. “What is his deal?”

Shifra shrugged. “He doesn’t trust me to make my own decisions. Thinks I’m too naive.”

“Well, he’s wrong,” Qadi said as they turned a corner, coming ever closer to the square. “How old was he when he killed the emperor anyway?”

Shifra raised an eyebrow, “Fifteen years my senior. I wasn’t even born yet.”

Qadi glared. “For Shev’s sake, he’s still wrong.”

Shifra glanced down the street. No priests were here to complain about Qadi’s profanity or toss her in prison for it. Shifra herself didn’t really mind, though she had caught herself almost swearing in front of her parents. She did not want to be present for that particular lecture.

A pressure began to build inside her, a raptor’s hook constricting her chest from the inside. They were getting closer to the square. The square of pain and punishment. And, according to the priests, penance.

Before Shifra could reply, a gaggle of wealthy young women strolled past, unlike the more progressive youth, these women wore traditional long, flowing glimas. They bowed respectfully to Shifra and shot scowls at Qadi. Shifra and Qadi paused their conversation, waiting for the group to pass.

“Now them?” Qadi said, “They’re naive. Even the most expensive tutors can’t fix them.” Qadi shot them a daggered glare as they turned around the corner. “Ugh, you don’t have to do anything, and they respect you. Me? They’d never have given me a glance before the rebellion. I had the same education, better than half the noble pansies up the road. But they all look at me as scum. If they think I’m a noble, all they want to do is gossip about these new pretenders. Once they find out my father was a scholar before he became a senator, they stop caring how nicely I dressed or how well I spoke.”

“It’ll change,” Shifra said with a smile. “I still pay attention to you; despite the fact you won’t shut up.”

Qadi laughed. “I’m quite glad that eleven-year-old Shifra didn’t think the new girl was too provincial.”

“At eleven, I didn’t even know what provincial meant.”

The closer they got to the square, the better she could see the flow of the crowds. Most people just went about their business, but a good number headed for the same destination. Paths converging like mountain streams. The hum of conversation began to grow.

Qadi smiled wistfully. “Some days I wish we could go back there, just a couple of girls skipping Etiquette, to talk philosophy.”

Shifra scoffed. “More like to talk about men. That reminds me, how’s Zeki?”

Qadi often wore the face of a rebel. A look of confidant defiance, ready to debate fiercely with anyone who disagreed with her. But now, that face looked more like a red tarbesh fruit. She shoved Shifra slightly. “He’s fine. His father told him to stop courting me again.”

“So, what did Zeki tell him?”

“He told his father to make love to a gallimai,” Qadi said. Her smile widened to an almost dreamy gaze. From what Shifra knew of Zeki, he hadn’t said something so soft as “make love”.

Zeki was like Shifra, from a noble family. Old money. Old blood. Except Zeki used his privilege to stomp all over convention, knowing there was little his father could do beyond the law. She doubted he would become a senator, but he was also studying the same with Qadi.

A rumble in the earth overwhelmed the growing sound of the crowd. A ceratop marched leisurely down the thoroughfare, its footsteps a deep, steady rhythm, pulling a beautifully crafted carriage. A driver dressed in fine clothing sat on its shoulders, his longstick taps on the beast’s faceshield guiding it more to the left or the right. The carriage had several wealthy men and women within it, laughing and drinking some sort of alcohol. A handful of streetsweepers moved back and forth across the road, scooping up the dung left behind, placing it in carts to be used as either compost or saltpeter for blackpowder. She almost laughed. The filth the wealthy left behind.

Shifra turned to Qadi to find her glaring at the occupants of the carriage, all thoughts of Zeki likely evaporated. Zeki might have been noble blood, but he didn’t act like it. The rest however...

“If it makes you feel any better,” Shifra said. “I don’t like talking to them either.”

Qadi shrugged. “Well, you can afford to.”

Shifra cocked her head, “What do you mean?”

Still looking at the carriage, Qadi said “It’s hard to see the mountain when you’ve lived atop it your whole life.”

A sharp pang of heat spiked in Shifra’s chest. Shifra tightened her jaw in frustration. “Qadi...”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Qadi took a slow, deep breath. Her pace slowed, and her gaze turned solemn.

“Come on,” Shifra said, “I want to hear what you think.”

Qadi let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’m just saying that, yes. We all work hard. But even though noble titles are illegal, noble families aren’t... You do realize you’re basically a princess, right? For Nether’s sake, you live in the biggest mansion in the city, your father controls our military, and your uncle rules the nation. Even your grandmother helps write the exams of governing. If anyone has advantages, it’s you.”

Shifra flinched, she turned away from her friend and looked forward, her light steps turning from a soft patter to a harsh clicking with the sharpness of her movements. Heat rose in her cheeks, which she was certain were starting to redden with embarrassment. Her frown shifted into a glare. “So, what do I do now? Give up all my belongings and live on the streets?”

Qadi returned a look of unamusement. “I’m just saying it’s hypocritical to assign all your success to hard work, when you’ve had a lot of privileges. You started miles ahead of the rest of us.”

Shifra didn’t respond for a time. She didn’t want to believe her. But there was too much truth in her words. Shifra did work hard, but what opportunities had she always had that others didn’t? Her anxiety formed a twisting pressure in her chest.

Finally, they had arrived at the square in front of the Grand Synagogue.

✦✦✦

A large crowd had gathered around the central platform.

She hated coming here. Every week, she dreaded this. At first it was only on Qadi’s insistence that she come, but now, after attending so many, something else drew her. A sense of purpose. Qadi could say what she wanted about Shifra’s privilege, but unlike the other former nobles, Shifra came to see the faces of those about to be punished or executed. It drove her to study, to train, to learn. So that she could change this. Stop the suffering.

For if she didn’t keep coming, she would soon forget the plight of those far less fortunate than her.

They pushed through the crowd until they found a decent spot to stand. A variety of people stood gathered to witness. The square was abuzz with gossip and chatter, all waiting the main event. Morbid curiosity drew quite the audience.

They brought out the first, a middle-aged man with greying hair. He had a black eye and a split lip. He was hunched over, on his knees, while two holy warriors held him up by his arms. The priest stepped up to the platform, a firm sadness in his eyes, a book in his hands.

“This man, Haviv, has refused to return unto Father God his due. And, when asked to repent, he has shown that he is a man of very little faith.”

Shifra felt a sharp pang of guilt. Her family had enough money to pay this man’s tithes and taxes ten thousand-fold. You started miles ahead of the rest of us, Shifra remembered Qadi saying only moments before.

The priest turned to an assistant, handing him the book and taking the whip. The holy warriors ripped the man’s shirt away and dropped him on the ground. The man didn’t even get up. His body shook with his weeping.

“The punishment for this crime, as written in the Most Holy Book of Shevidaro,” the priest said, gripping the whip and tightening it, causing the leather to creak, “is thirty lashings.”

He looked down at the shirtless man, frowning, gaze full of piety and pity. Shifra gripped the front of her jacket so hard her forearm ached.

The man gazed up at the priest, his eyes pleading, his brow creased in pain.

The priest backhanded the man with a gloved hand, causing the poor soul to roll and spit blood. “The penitent do not lift their eyes,” the priest said as several holy warriors moved, picking the man up and tying him to the central beam of the platform none too softly.

Shifra’s heart leapt in her throat. The man’s back was already covered in barely healed scars. He’d been here before. More than once.

“If we trust in Father God, then nothing his Holy Church asks will be too difficult,” the priest said, circling around to stand behind the man. “Through him, all things are possible.”

The whip lashed out in a loud crack, and with a shout of pain the man spasmed against his bonds. Rather than continue, the priest made an agonizing pause. Letting the pain sink in. Then, he struck again, and again. His pace was varied, long pauses mixed with steady rhythm then erratic strikes in rapid succession. Each crack of the whip caused Shifra to wince. She looked to the priest. He had a look of grim determination and solemn duty.

Shifra gripped the handle of her blade, the leather wraps creaking. She felt a soft touch on her shoulder and spun. Where Shifra was frowning, Qadi bore actual tears.

“How do we just sit back and watch, week after week? Cowards hiding in the back,” Shifra said.

“You can’t just march up there and stop it,” Qadi said.

“You just told me I could!” Shifra hissed.

She felt a rush of embarrassment and looked around. Only a handful of people in the noisy crowd had noticed their conversation, and their attention quickly returned to the punishment. Her gaze passed over the priest and went to the man who hung by his bonds, arms wrapped around the main beam. His back had split into long, thin wounds which trickled blood.

Then, she saw what lay beyond the platform. A line of several dozen people. Escorted by holy warriors.

I can’t help them all… she thought bitterly.

She relaxed her grip on her blade and folded her arms, frowning.

“Your father,” Qadi said, “I don’t think he’s ever attended.”

Shifra turned to her. “You’re right.”

Qadi’s hand clenched into a fist, and she took a deep breath.

Shifra cocked her head. “Well, go ahead and say it?”

“My theory is, that if he did, he would feel inclined to change things. He cares for his people, and always treats his enemies justly. Don’t you think he would show that same compassion to these if he would just look?”

Shifra frowned.

Her gaze passed over the crowd. Most of them were the poor in their simpler glima robes; single-colored patchwork garb. Far too many of them looked gaunt, their postures sagging, their hair tangled messes, dark circles under their eyes from working long hours. A people overburdened with paying for a church that did them little and a government with too many levels.

“You’re the one who said I can’t march up there and stop it,” Shifra said. “I could become a senator, like your father. But those changes could take years to bring about…”

“You’re right,” Qadi said, turning her frowning gaze back to the whipped man. “And we don’t want another civil war. Not when the nobles’ pride has been lessened, and people like my father can become a leader. But your uncle vetoes any measure that would lessen his grip. And as long as your father backs him, we’re all scared to push back too hard.”

Shifra paused. The whipping had stopped.

They dragged the poor man from the platform. Luckily, he was still breathing. But a woman was brought up next. She looked to be dressed like a beggar. Similar charges were read. Thankfully they ripped the back of her shirt after they had tied her to the beam.

The whipping began again.

“Shifra,” Qadi said, her voice trembling. She flinched at the woman’s high cries of agony. “You don’t have to change the world alone. You don’t have to get a position of authority. You just must get your own father to just… look. To see. I know the High General’s no politician, but we need his help. He’s the only wind that can move the mountain of your uncle’s will.”

Qadi looked back to the woman. She flinched with the sound of every stroke but did not avert her gaze. “Yishai has changed much, but the Church abuses its power, the former nobles still think they own everything, and the bureaucrats squeeze the people dry. If you could just get him to look, then what could you accomplish? What could we accomplish in Ateya?”

Shifra’s heart ached at the idea. To make a difference, an idea that seemed so far out of reach. Being the high general’s daughter didn’t seem to give her much influence. But…

The woman screamed again.

Shifra grabbed Qadi’s hands in her own. “I’ll figure it out, Qadi. I have to.”