I tilt my head. “Yes . . .”
He hooks his thumb into his outer belt. “Humans aren’t trusted with currency.”
Oh. I suppose that makes sense, if we’re such low-class denizens.
Since he’s being frank, I ask, “And Unach’s name is enough?”
“Unach is Montra.”
There is that word again. “She’s . . . an official?”
Azmar frowns. “Montra is sixth caste. The food handlers and Rooms Office workers will be Deccor at best. That’s third caste.”
I blink, mulling over the information. Thinking of Grodd at the farm walls, the way other trolls steered clear of him and Unach both.
“There are eight castes,” Azmar continues patiently. “Supra, Alpine, Montra, Centra, Intra, Deccor, Nethens, and Pleb. Humans have no caste. If you want to survive, you need to remember that. Stay out of the way.”
That’s the second time he’s given me that warning. Troff said something similar. “And you and your sister are Montra.”
“I am Centra.”
One below. “But you’re the same family . . .” Realizing I’m forgetting myself, I step back and bow my head. “I’m sorry, I should be on my way.”
“Give deference to everyone you meet,” he warns.
I glance at the map.
He points back the way I came. “If you go to the farthest lift, you’ll get up more quickly.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Unlike the others, Azmar nods to my thanks instead of behaving as though I’d spoken a foreign language. The easy gesture emboldens me. I can do this. I’ve gotten through worse, haven’t I?
After memorizing my path, I tuck the map away and venture into the crowd, not bumping into a single troll along the way.
Had I started from Unach and Azmar’s apartment, I would have found the market with more ease. It’s the largest part of Cagmar I’ve seen thus far, with high, cavernous ceilings and wide roads lined with stone shops and stalls. It’s busy, but an orderly sort of busy. As though everyone knows their place and which direction to walk. I try my best not to disrupt any of it.
What’s especially strange in these crowds is how small I am. I came into my height in my teen years and am notably tall for a human woman. And yet even the shortest troll has a hand’s length on me. Only the few, stout children I’ve spotted are shorter.
The stonework and supports surrounding me amplify the noise of the market, making it sound busier than it looks. I check Azmar’s drawing, squinting at his handwriting. If he hadn’t described it to me, I’d think this was written in another language, his writing is so . . . hasty. Was this the Rooms Office or the food handlers?
I walk forward, stepping out of the way of two enormous trolls. A bright-green troll woman hawks strings of beads ahead of me. An adolescent just taller than myself has a basket of some sort of fried food I can’t identify. When he meets my gaze, he snarls. I quicken my step.
Voices louder than the rest catch my attention. I spy a hand-pulled cart on the edge of the cobbled road, three trolls beside it. One of them catches my attention in particular. I know I’m gawking at him, but I can’t help it. He’s unlike any other creature I’ve seen in this place.
He’s short, and by short I mean a hand’s width taller than myself. His skin is ashen, not gray or green, but something different altogether. His features definitely lean troll, but they lack the same thickness and width as those near him. His nose is longer, his widow’s peak less severe.
I quickly realize the trolls near him—one dark as charcoal, the other green as a sapling—aren’t friendly. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the first spits at the ground as the second shoves the smaller troll’s shoulder. “Just a . . . Nethens . . . fodder.” I can’t make out the rest. Laughing, they take up their cart and wheel it away.
The troll scowls and picks up a satchel from the ground. I think I recognize the name they used: Nethens, the second on Azmar’s list of castes, though I could be wrong.
Perhaps it’s my foolish gawking, or because I am a pale contrast to the city around me, but the troll’s gaze finds me. He looks surprised. We stare at one another for several seconds before I adjust my bag and continue forward, searching for the food handlers. But as I near, he speaks to me.
“You’re the monster slayer.”
I stop and turn back. “You know that?”
He eyes me from head to toe, slowly. I push away feelings of self-consciousness. “I overheard a few people talking about it.”
I twist the strap of my bag in my hands. “Is it so strange?”
“Yes.” He’s incredulous that I even asked. “Humans are trade workers only. Monster slayers are Montra.”
I hadn’t realized . . . but that does make Troff’s reaction more understandable. I shrug. “The council ordered it.” Seeing that he has yet to scowl at me, I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Perg.”
“Lark.” I offer a smile. “I’m staying with Unach.”
He whistles. “I don’t envy you.”
“She’s been kind.” I study his face. His skin has slight hues of green, making me think of a human who’s terribly ill. He is broad for a man, but not for a troll. His ears are rounder than a troll’s, his hair a little thinner. His tusks look more like large teeth than anything else.
“Do I look so strange?” He wipes a hand down his face in a wholly insecure gesture.
I step back. “N-No! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I’m just . . . I’m not accustomed to your people yet.”
“My people,” he repeats. “Just as much your people, if you must know. That’s why they treat me the way they do.”
He looks past me, to the path the other trolls had taken upon my arrival.
My heart thumps in my chest. “You . . . You’re part human?” Half? Was such a thing even possible?
Perg glowers, but he tips his head in the affirmative. I think I should apologize for the question . . . but he said it first, didn’t he? Instead I try “It must be hard here.”
He chuckled. “It would be hard anywhere.”
I have to agree.
He shakes his head. “Why would you come here? They hate humans.”
I wring the strap of my bag. “It hasn’t been . . . terrible.” Wishing to make a friend, I allow myself honesty. “I’m not well loved among my own kind. I thought I could try a new life here.”
His expression is so incredulous that I laugh. He hesitates. “What was your name again?”
“Lark.” After seven years, I don’t even think twice about the name.
“Lark.” On his lips, it’s the strangest-sounding name I’ve ever heard. “Lark,” he says again, then sighs. “Stay out of the way, Lark. You’ll live longer.”
Our amiableness lost, he pushes past me and heads down a side corridor. Only then do I notice a great war axe strapped to his back. I wonder where he’s going, and what he plans to use it for.