Wren didn't think that anything could be worse than the stew her mother served, but the bits of burnt white bread soaked in foul-smelling sauce far surpassed it. She nibbled at the corner of her portion and tried not to make too many faces lest she arise Ittra's ire once again. Ittra looked at her with impassive grey eyes and returned her attention to the ledger in front of her. 

"You're not going to make it to the city if you won't eat," she said blandly. Wren stuffed the bread into her mouth and tried not to gag. She had no idea what was in it, but it tasted like rotting jackal meat mixed with curdled cream. She forced the food down her throat and scraped the leftover bits to a corner of her plate.

"Can I take a walk?" Wren asked after a few moments of very uncomfortable silence.

"Sure, doesn't matter to me. I'd make sure you have a knife though." Ittra shrugged and took a sip of strong black coffee from the wooden tumbler she clutched in her hand. "You don't need to ask permission. Michael will be back in a few days, try to be back before then."

Wren tried not to roll her eyes and pushed the food away from her, then stood from the table and turned to exit the tent. The flap had been tied up and away to let out the heat from the afternoon sun, and people peered in curiously at them as they walked by. Wren pulled the hood over her head and kept her eyes averted to the ground.

It was nearly as busy here as it was in the marketplace on the other end of the caravan, except here few people had anything to sell, because no one had money to buy. She watched a young child in nothing but a rag run about between the feet of his mother, who scarcely looked up from her sewing to mind him. 

Someone pulled at the hem of Wren's shirt and she turned her head. An old man, spine bent from age, held out shaking hands. His breath reeked of liquor and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. Wren wished for a moment that she had a loaf of bread or even a few pennies, but she didn't, so she shook her head and moved on. The man followed her for a few paces, then gave up and wandered back toward the direction he came.

As she branched out the families started to wane and were replaced with an entirely different sort of folk. Raggedy old men like the one who had begged for food. Sellswords who didn't pay her any mind. What was strange for her, though, was the complete and utter lack of marked ones. Nowhere she looked had anyone with wings or anyone that really looked unusual apart from the ones who obviously hadn't come from the desert.

Until Ittra explained it to her, it had never occurred to her what the guard was really for. No one cared about the people out here. They could die by the dozens and no one would notice. But the merchants, they had money. They kept Aegan's coffers full and supplied the guard with food and luxury. In return they protected the marketplace and everyone who frequented there while politely leaving everyone on the other side of the caravan to die. The more she thought about it the angrier she became. 

Wren scarcely noticed that she'd wandered down an alley and into a place with no people until she looked up and noticed that she was alone. Her heart began to pound slightly in her ears and she reached around for the dagger Armand had stolen for her. The cool metal of the handle caressed her fingers and she tightened her hand around its hilt. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she glanced around. No one. She sighed in relief and turned to walk back in the direction of watchful eyes.

Something grabbed her shirt and Wren spun around. A large man with muscles like iron and eyes like coal glared back down at her.

"I know a caravan rat when I see one, and you aren't one. Give me all your money," he said.

Wren's heart raced. She gulped and ripped her shirt out of the man's hand, then broke into a sprint but her speed was no match for the man's. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her like a sack of potatoes onto the ground.

"I said give me your money!" he shouted. Wren yelped. The man ripped the cloak off her face and grabbed her around the jaw. His eyes widened in surprise and he turned her head to the side and his fingers dug into the bone of her jaw.

"Let go of me!" she shouted as she struggled to get the dagger out from the folds of her cloak. The man pinned her arm above her head in response and leaned his face close to hers. His hot breath washed over her neck and she fought an impulse to spit in his face.

"You're a pretty little thing aren't you? Just give me what you have and there won't be any trouble."

"I don't have anything," she whimpered, which was the truth. All she had was the dagger, and it was too caught up in the fabric of her shirt for her to use. The man pressed his knee into her thigh until the muscle screamed out in pain. She wondered if anyone would ever find the body, since she was certain he meant to kill her.

"I don't believe you," he said as he slid his hand down her neck and tightened it around her throat until Wren started to get dizzy. "Give me what you got before you end up like the rest of your buddies up by the marketplace."

Wren's mind went blank. She bit her lip so hard it bled and fished desperately with her free hand. Her fingers caught the hilt of the dagger and curled around it. She prayed he wouldn't notice as she slid it from its sheath and eased it into her hand. Her leg curled and her kneecap collided with his groin. He screamed.

"You little witch!" His fist crashed against her face and Wren's vision exploded in stars. Her breath came fast and hot as she gave one final tug and the dagger freed itself from her pocket. Her arm met only slight resistance as the weapon penetrated the man's stomach. He let out another scream and rolled off of her.

Wren scrambled to her knees. Adrenaline clouded her vision. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, matched only by the ringing in her head. She lifted her arm and plunged the dagger into him again and again until he was still and unmoving and tears ran down her face.

Wren stared back and forth to the man, and to the dagger, and to her hands. His mouth hung half-open in a grimace and his eyes were glassy and lifeless, like marbles. Her clothes were splattered with spots of red and stank of iron. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. It came back with a streak of blood. She spat and a pool of it gathered on the ground next to her. She touched her face and winced. There was no one out here to protect her. No one to make her safe if someone decided to steal from her or worse. Wren wiped the tears from her eyes and stood.

She hoped no one would stare at her as she made the long walk back to the tent. Ittra wouldn't be gracious enough to share her home with a murderer. Especially not a murderer twice over. She ducked into another deserted alleyway between tents and tried to move as quickly and silently as possible back to the wagon. Her heart raced as she glanced around her, scarcely noticing anything about her surroundings except for the fact that they were deserted. She sighed with relief when the wagon came into sight.

She climbed up the wooden stairs and ducked inside, then pulled the flap shut behind her. She had to hide the blood. Ittra's stares and the jeers of other caravangoers filled her mind as she looked around, frantic for anything that might hide the evidence.

Wren picked up her old clothes and let the soft, white fabric flow through her hands. She'd give anything to put back on the long, simple cotton tunic that flowed over her skin instead of catching on it. But Ittra would notice. Even if she rubbed it in the dirt and purposely tore the fabric, Wren couldn't sew. She'd just be left with nice clothes that had holes in them.

Wren thought she might start crying again, but there were no more tears to come despite the fact that her eyes felt like someone had thrown sand in them. She curled up in the corner of the wagon and hid her head in her arms.

It wasn't until a few hours later that Ittra came looking for her. A stream of light banged against her eyelids and she opened her eyes. Ittra let out a gasp.

"What happened, child?" she asked as she ducked her head and scrambled inside the wagon. She took Wren's face in her hands and touched her swollen cheek with gentle fingers. Wren winced and tried to turn away from her.

"I'm sorry," Wren whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"--Did someone hurt you?" Ittra asked gently. "You're covered in blood and that cheek needs looking at. Come inside, Wren."

Wren shook her head 'no'. She didn't deserve another place to go. She'd stay in the wagon and out of sight until they hit the city and then she'd be gone. If she didn't make it that long, well, it wasn't like she hadn't asked for it. Ittra sighed and shook her head.

"There's a reason I asked you to carry the dagger. No one needs to know but us."

Wren glanced at Ittra out of the corner of her eye. The woman smiled at her, just a little smile that somehow made Wren feel like everything might just manage to turn out less-than-terrible. She swallowed down her tears and unfurled from the ball she'd curled herself into, then followed Ittra out of the wagon.

"Sit," Ittra said as she pointed to the same cushion Wren had sat in when she'd gotten all her hair cut off. She ran her hand through it. It felt short and spiky and nothing like her. She would have given anything to be able to cry some more. Instead she just collapsed onto the cushion as Ittra gathered a bowl and a waterskin and a sponge.

"Hold still," Ittra said as she gently sponged around Wren's eye. The sponge came back soaked with blood. Ittra dipped the sponge in the bowl and began sponging at Wren's hair. "He made a real mess of you, didn't he?"

Wren nodded and bit her lip. The inside of her cheek was raw and tasted like copper. Ittra sponged the blood off her neck and took one of her hands and dipped it in the bowl, then began scrubbing at Wren's fingernails.

"I'm sorry," Wren repeated weakly.

"Men are horrible," Ittra spat. "There's no need to apologize. It's not your fault. I'll get you fresh clothes." She gave Wren's hands back to her and retrieved another set of rags from a bag on the other end of the tent.

 Wren removed her shirt and pulled the new one on without much protest, as if getting rid of the blood would let her forget. She finished changing the rest of her clothes and wrapped her arms around her knees again. Every time she thought she'd escaped the fireworks incident something new reminded her. And now she'd have carry a second person's blood on her hands. And what did he mean when he said she'd wind up like the rest of the people in the marketplace? Her stomach tied itself in knots. Thoughts drifted in and out of her head like paper after that, and everything around her congealed until all she could see was her own hands.

By the time she moved again the sky was dark and Ittra laid on a pad in the corner, covered in blankets and snoring lightly. Wren couldn't have been happier that Michael hadn't returned yet. She didn't know him well enough to know whether he'd ask more questions. She crawled back to the wagon and laid there with her eyes wide open until almost morning.  

    ---

This part of the caravan is really dangerous. Do you think Wren should have known better? How would you feel if you were her?