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Instead, the woman steps to the entrance of the stall, looking in the direction the guards had gone. Then, inexplicably, she turns back to me and jerks her head.
“Go,” she whispers.
I blink in disbelief. “What?”
“Go,” she repeats, more urgently this time. “Before they come back.”
I scramble to my feet, but hesitate. This might be my only chance to get information.
“Do you know where the flesh markets are?” I ask.
The woman’s brows furrow. “Flesh markets?” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “You must be from Purgatory.”
I nod, hope flaring in my chest.
“Here they are called the trade auctions,” she explains, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Please,” I say. “I need to find them. My sister . . .” My voice breaks on the word.
The woman steps closer, eyes softening with sympathy, even as they dart nervously toward the market.
“You really should steer clear of there,” she murmurs, but something in my expression must tell her I can’t be dissuaded. She sighs heavily and peers out of her stall again, ensuring no guards have doubled back, then turns to me with new urgency in her voice. “They take them to a warehouse. It’s not far, maybe two streets over. They come off the ship and straight into trucks.”
“Which way,” I whisper, eyes darting in all directions.
She points to a narrow passage between a fruit stall and a bakery. “When you get to that alleyway, go down it, then turn left. You’ll come to the main street. Follow it until you reach the brothels.”
My stomach churns at the mention of brothels. Is that where Sable might end up if I don’t find her in time?
“There’s an alley between the brothels,” the woman continues. “Go through that alley, and you’ll arrive at the warehouse.” She glances around nervously again. “But girl, be careful. If they’re looking for you with this much effort, you’ve angered someone important.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, genuine gratitude washing through me. In a world where kindness is rare, this woman has given it freely, at risk to herself.
She shoos me away with fluttering hands. “Go now. The punishment for hiding you would be severe.”
I slip from behind the rack of dresses and duck my head, preparing to blend back into the crowd.
“May the old gods watch over you,” she murmurs as I pass.
I nod once, then step back into the flow of marketgoers. Two streets over. Down the alley. Left turn. Main Street. Past the brothels. Through another alley.
And then, hopefully, Sable.
I follow the old woman’s directions precisely, my heart pounding louder with each step that brings me closer to the warehouse. The streets grow less crowded as I move away from the main market, buildings more utilitarian, their facades lacking the colorful awnings and decorative woodwork of the commercial district.
When I reach the alley between the brothels, I hesitate, struck by the contrast. On one side, huge bay windows are framed around half-dressed women, calling to passersby with practiced smiles that never reach their eyes. On the other, stern-faced men guard doorways to gambling halls. I slip between these two worlds of manufactured pleasure, following the narrow passage until it opens into the busy loading docks of a massive warehouse.
The area is a cluster of activity as trucks unload human cargo. Vehicles line the side of the building, their rear doors thrown open to reveal the horrors within. Guards drag people out—men, women, even children—all shackled and wide-eyed with fear. Some fight against their captors, earning swift blows for their resistance. Others move with the vacant stare of those who have surrendered to their fate. Their wails and pleas form a terrible chorus that raises the hairs on my arms.
“Please! I have children!”
“Don’t separate us. I beg you!”
The guards pay them no mind, shoving them forward with batons and threats, wheeling metal cages filled with those too weak to walk. I press myself against the alley wall, fighting the urge to run to them, to free them all. But I can’t help anyone if I am captured too.
I scan the warehouse, looking for any entrance less heavily guarded than the loading docks. Along the rear wall, partially hidden behind stacked crates, I spot a door, likely used by workers rather than for prisoner transport. No guards stand nearby.
Staying low, and using the chaos of the unloading as cover, I dart from the alley to the shadow of the crates. The door is unlocked when I test it, swinging open with a soft creak that is lost in the noise of shouts and rumbling engines. I slip inside, easing it closed.
