She laid up in the spare cot of a trusted friend the night she murdered Qais. Sleep eluded her, and with no other company than the stars in the sky outside the window, Demda was left to thoughts of what had happened. The city outside was bustling, even in twilight, pitch men and con artists peddled their wares well into the evening. Their goods of varying and undeterminable use or quality to even an astute appraiser. Eventually, through her guilt and paranoia, she was able to let the rhythmic comings and goings of the outdoor market lull her to sleep. So she rested until shaken awake by her acquaintance.
She was an elder woman, someone who'd offered her a place to stay when she was having a fight with Qais at other times. She didn't enquire as to why Demda had to stay there that night. Demda never considered that the kindly old woman would've suspected what had happened. Yet as they sat at the humble clay table, seated on floor cusions and sampling coffee, the gray-haired spinster stared across at her guest. She spoke, "I won't ask how, dearest child, but why?"
Demda's eyes flickered up to meet the stare of her friend. She suppressed her sense of guilt and sorrow. It wasn't her right to cry over what she'd done. Murderess that she was, she couldn't in good conscience allow herself such an intoxicating release. Instead, she forked some lettuce and rice into her mouth, and began chewing. After a moment, and a swallow of the coffee to wash the humble food down, then she responded. "He was going to use me to murder someone in the Towers. Probably set me up into the bargain."
Demda choked down a sob, still not allowing herself the luxury of sorrow. "He used me. I was never anything more than a prop, a thing to him. And he was ready to cash me in for a cheap murder job."
The bitterness of the admission steeled her against her sorrow. And she remembered why she'd killed the man to begin with. That did help some. Her hand drifted to the silver amphora around her neck, the capsule from which she'd poured out the Sinith Slug Ash into his wine. It'd almost been a botch job, and she feared she might have poisoned herself for a moment. His thirst and lust for wine ended up being his downfall.
"I see..." The old woman said, with a sigh. "Well, you can stay here as long as you need to. I'm going to make a market run later on, if you'd like to stay here?"
Demda paused on hearing that. Why not go with her to the market? Why wouldn't she invite her? Did she have a contact, was she going to turn her into Qais' gang? Demda kept these thoughts well hidden, although the woman already understood her to be distraught. It wasn't a stretch to conceal the source of her discontent.
A break later, after they'd finished breakfast, the old woman departed the small flat where she was hosting Demda. The younger woman waited for her footsteps to fade down the corridor, before rushing into action. She went straight for the old woman's hope trunk, where much of her clothing were stored. They'd probably fit Demda, she wasn't that much different in terms of physique than her hostess. She threw a heavy desert wool robe over her dress. That done, she wrapped her arms with linen coverings. Finally, she gathered her hair into an up-braid. Once her hair was tied properly and hairpinned, she took one of the woman's headscarves, a plain brown woolen cloth, that wrapped around Demda's head neatly. It did well to further conceal the hair that was such a woefully identifying marker. The gang always recognized her before seeing her face. A running gag was that they'd only have to spot the 'open flame in a field of coal' when looking for her in a marketplace.
Thus prepared, her hair gathered beneath the headscarf, and body mostly formless beneath the loose-fitting woolen robe, she made her way out of the house of her 'friend'. She didn't have to get ten feet out the door before she spotted her benefactor, talking with one of Qais' gang, and pointing down the hall, toward the bend where the flat was! That deceitful old wretch! At least Demda had confirmation that her paranoia wasn't badly founded. But they were blocking one of the accesses down to the floors below. She ran back around the bend in the hall, and ducked into an alcove, where brooms and other cleaning tools were kept. She flattened her back against the wall, not daring to move, nor even to breathe as the two went around to the old woman's flat. She knocked twice, and then entered, followed by the gang member.
Once they were inside and out of visual range, she slipped out of the alcove, and began running for the stairs. Sounds of alarm sounded from behind her, she'd been spotted!
Nevertheless, she tapped into the function of Qais' running boot wrappings, and began making speed away from them, at the cost of twice the fatigue. She had to make a dash for the streets, and then she could get lost...
When she arrived a few yards ahead of the stairs, she thought she'd lost them. She was almost free to the streets! The threshold of the doorway was just yards away, but then the gang member came storming after her down the stairs, sliding down the railing and using the momentum to propel himself forward. He almost got a hand on her robe before she pulled away, but not before his hand tore a seam in the robe, leaving her colorful dress beneath exposed to sight.
Despite this setback, she was able to outrun him by a hair, and lost him in the twists and turns of the market. She bunched up the torn seam in her hand, trying to conceal the tear so she couldn't easily be identified when he inevitably tried to trail her.
She moved north through the outskirts of Nashaki. Weaving in and out of the throng of passersby, until she reached the West District of the city. There, she was caught in the middle of a bazaar. One of the merchants caught notice of her torn robe, and grabbed her by the elbow roughly. "Madam! Madam! I stitch! I stitch robe for two copper nel!" He babbled in badly Vorkelian accented common. She turned her eyes toward him, and looked each way, to look for signs of her pursuit. Seeing none, she nodded to the tailor. "Just stitch the robe, nothing else. Alright?" She murmured, and then followed him as he beckoned her into a dressing booth next to his market stall. There, he wove the needle in and out of the seam that had been torn. Idly, Demda's eyes began to wander to the gap in the cloth that separated them from the outside market. She noted some of the finer clothing he had on offer.
One of the articles caught her eye, and she thought for a moment maybe it would be a good idea to avail herself of a change in wardrobe midchase.
"How much for the outfit?" She asked, nodding toward a masculine, desert riding outfit that looked like it could be made to fit her. The halfriel looked at it perhaps too long, because the price he asked was terribly high.
"A dozen gilded nels!" He beamed, obviously pleased that she'd noted his craftsmanship. "For the young lady, a good bargain!"
Demda sighed visibly, and then pulled out her coin purse. From it, she produced a set of nels, perhaps more than she needed to give, and handed them over to the tailor.
About a break later, after it'd been fitted perfectly to her form, she came out of the booth with her new clothing, having discarded the old woman's set of robes (which smelled of mothballs and potpourri anyway). It was a loose-fitting outfit, with baggy trousers, tightly wound ankle wraps to allow for her boots to crop upward. Also a nomad-styled layered tunic whose hem fell halfway to the knees. She also put in for a few other articles while she was there, paying the tailor generously for his discretion, which he assured her that he would give. Demda had her doubts.
Nevertheless, she was able to travel the streets, her face concealed behind goggles and a mask, walking casually toward a tavern where she could lay up until she planned her next move. It wouldn't be hard to avoid Qais' small gang within the city, but in the outskirts, she might run into trouble. Therefore, she sent a messenger to gather up her sponsor with the Ulema Tribe, one nomadic tribal known as Khorog. He was a dour man, but honest, and doughty enough that she felt she could trust him.
