Beraht burst through the door and my heart pounded, my breath stuck in my throat quivering a soundtrack of wheezes, wisps and gulps as his hand snaked around my neck. My lips gave birth to choking sounds growing ever faint as I felt his hold tighten.
"You were supposed to kill the guy. You think you'll last ten seconds in the carta if you can't kill a traitor?"
Beraht's method of criticism wasn't unusual; no matter how much I told myself that these outbursts were scarce and only caused by my own weakness. His eyes crinkled in fury, spitting through his beard as he cursed everything that I was, promising that I would never turn out to be more than carta scum.
I had been convinced that if I kept one lyrium nugget to myself and gave the other lyrium nugget to Beraht, he would think that I had shaken Oskias down and taken everything he had – and I would be able to go home with the thirty silvers minimum I'd be able to get for the lyrium nugget to buy my family some food or clean clothes. It had been too much to hope for, he'd seen through the ruse and wanted to make me pay. He wouldn't kill me if he thought there were any use left in me. But as the drowsy feeling of unconsciousness washed over my body, it seemed that he had seen too much good in me. Beraht wanted someone that could kill on sight, to throw away their morals on a whim, and no matter how hard I tried – knowing I'd be dead if I didn't – when it came to it, I accepted a bribe rather than kill the guy. My eyelids grew weak while Beraht's anger still radiated against my limp body. No one would find me, we were in one of the carta's many hollow abandoned buildings in Dust Town. When Beraht had said he wanted to meet here, I could only pray to the Stone that I would survive to leave again.
Next thing I knew, my eyes squinted as the dusky view of Dust town met my gaze. I awoke in the middle of the square, as if I had passed out drunk. When I looked beside me, ol' Nadezda was sleeping on the ground, dirt worn over her face like a marker. When you had to beg for food, a little dirt to the face wasn't worth a complaint. It wasn't just the face brand that you could tell a casteless. You could tell one in the finest jewellery, we dusters were the ones that never looked down at anyone. We were the ones that could take a silver and make it count. Where having sex for money wasn't a question of openness but of how much they were willing to give for the act. The ones that asked for food and a bed to sleep in, never anything else.
My neck and shoulders were sore and I umpfed my way through the door of my home, noticing upon my arrival a cylindrical container on my doorstep. It was worn silver with a few scratches but largely intact. Stolen, most likely. I tugged at the written parchment inside and unfurled the paper, revealing the words:
'Next time, duster, you're dead."