They moved on, eventually coming to a small tiled room which contained a chair and table, both bolted down. On the table a pair of plain but sturdy shoes sat alongside a folded set of overalls and a cake of soap. In the centre of the room a bucket of water sat close to an iron-grated drain. “Sit down, love,” the Senior Constable told her, pointing to the chair and closing the door. He removed his mask as she sat, revealing a broad, fleshy face set in a grimace of habitual sympathy.
“Your prisoner number is Six-one-four,” he told her, unlocking her manacles and setting them on the table. “Remember it. You’ll need it on Ore Day, otherwise you don’t get fed. Understand?”
Lizanne stared up at him blankly for a moment before giving a hesitant nod.
“Good.” His grimace deepened. “Need you to strip now. Best if you don’t give me any trouble. Don’t worry, I’ve seen everything you’ve got a thousand times and never been tempted once.”
She briefly considered throwing a hysterical fit of some kind, but decided meek acquiescence would better suit her current persona. The constable was patient as she stood up and slowly pulled the coarse woollen smock over her head, placing it on the table and standing hunched with an arm across her breasts and a hand over her crotch. “You’ll find the water’s cold,” the constable said, pointing to the bucket and handing her the soap. “Sorry about that. Be sure to be thorough.”
So she washed, gasping at the chill of the water and dragging the cheap, odourless soap over her skin as he looked on with professional scrutiny, his eyes lacking any vestige of lust. She was unsure whether to find this reassuring or not. She deliberately prolonged the washing, knowing what came next and a lack of hesitancy would be sure to arouse suspicion.
“That’s enough,” he said, finally. “Rinse off.”
He had her stand facing the wall with her hands raised and legs parted. “Alright then, love,” he said as she shivered and bit down on a whimper. “You got anything hidden, now’s the time to tell me and it’ll stay just between us. But if you don’t tell me and I find something, well, that’s a different matter. Last lady who tried it got put through the gate with no clothes and no blanket. Trust me, you don’t want that.”
“I-I’ve nothing!” Lizanne babbled. “I swear!”
“Well, let’s hope so, eh?”
The subsequent inspection was brief but thorough enough to provoke an involuntary shudder or two.
“Good,” the constable said in brisk satisfaction. “Let’s get you dressed, shall we?”
? ? ?
“It’s better if you don’t think of Scorazin as a prison,” the constable told her a short while later. She walked ahead of him, her overalls chafing as they descended a series of stairwells into the bowels of the gatehouse. The garment was fashioned from thick, tight-woven cotton and, despite a recent laundering, retained a faded but recognisable blood-stain on the midriff. “It’s a city, really,” he went on. “And like any city it has rules. The precise details change according to whoever’s enforcing them, but for the most part it boils down to two basics: don’t take what you’re not strong enough to keep and don’t fight anyone you’re not strong enough to kill.”
They reached the bottom of the last stairwell where a heavy iron-braced door waited. The constable put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around, his gaze rich in the same pity she had seen outside the gatehouse. “Few words of advice, love,” he said. “Make friends fast, and don’t be picky about it. You’ll need protection. There’s a place you might want to make for. A tavern of sorts. When you get through the grate find Sluiceman’s Way, it’s the widest street in the eastern quarter. Follow it until you come to Pick Street. Keep to the sides and don’t speak to anyone that speaks to you. If they press their case, start running. The place you’re looking for is called the Miner’s Repose but the sign’s long since faded. You’ll know it ’cause it’s by far the largest building in the street. Ask for Melina.” He cupped her chin in a gesture that was almost fatherly. “Tell her Constable Darkanis sent you.”
Lizanne coughed, drew breath and asked in a small voice, “It’s . . . It’s a whore-house?”
He lowered his hand and gave a heavy sigh. “Trust me, love, it’s far better than the mines.”
He turned and worked a key in the heavy door, hauling it aside to reveal a tunnel. “Before I got here,” Constable Darkanis said, hefting an oil-lamp to illuminate the tunnel, “they used to send the new arrivals in through the main gate at the start of each week. One big parcel of the poor sods served up like feeding time at the menagerie, ’specially if there were any women in the bunch. Started having a bad effect on the size of the work-force, so we’ve got a more civilised way of doing things these days.”
He stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. Lizanne gave a start at the sight of a rat scurrying away from the light, then clutched her blanket tighter and entered the tunnel. They sloshed through an inch of foul-smelling water, rats fleeing ahead of them as the constable kept up an advisory monologue she assumed he had delivered hundreds of times before. “It’ll be dark soon. Best to wait a good couple of hours before you poke your head out though, gives the taverns time to fill up and clears the streets of those who’ve come off the day shift.”
After a hundred yards or so the tunnel split in two and he pointed her to the opening on the left, advising that it would take her closer to the Miner’s Repose. Fifty paces on Lizanne came to a sturdy iron gate; the bars spanned the tunnel from floor to ceiling and were set deep into the brickwork. Beyond the gate she could see a thin stream of light descending through an opening in the tunnel’s roof.
“There’s a few dozen entry points for you to choose from,” Darkanis said, stepping forward to unlock the gate. “Just lift the grate and crawl out, but choose carefully cos it’ll lock behind you. Avoid the one near the river, there’s always some mud-slingers hanging around regardless of the hour.”
He had crouched a little to unlock the gate, turning his exposed neck to her. Even without a drop of product in her veins, rendering him unconscious or dead wasn’t a particularly difficult prospect. His keys and whatever valuables he had in his pockets might well come in handy in the days ahead, and the garrison was hardly likely to scour the whole city for his assailant. The risks are too high, she decided, telling herself the decision had nothing to do with sentiment. Rare to find a decent man in so terrible a place.
“Best of luck, love,” Constable Darkanis said, swinging the gate open and standing aside.
Lizanne allowed a few seconds to pass before stepping through the gate, turning to watch as he locked it behind her. “Remember what I said about waiting for a while,” he told her with a wink before turning to go.
“Thank you,” she said. The constable paused and turned back with a puzzled frown that told her these were words none of his charges had spoken before. “Your . . . compassion does you credit, sir. For which I thank you.”
“You’re welcome, love,” he said in a flat tone. It was clear to Lizanne he wasn’t accustomed to going off script.
She nodded and turned to go.