〝 𝑖𝑣.
. . .
"So, if you get from ring to ring by walking along the roofs . . . then how do you get over the walls without attracting the attention of the guards?"
"Because that's all they are: guards," said Zaia. "They're trained for nothing; no real combat. All they know how to do is stand there at their posts until their time is up and ring the alarm if they see something. But some can't even do that. The ones I've snuck past are either oblivious or asleep."
"Asleep?" Lani gaped like the true workaholic he was. "They sleep on the job?"
She smiled in amusement. "I don't blame them. It's a boring one to have."
Her company looked down to his cargo in horror, leaving her to gaze out at the moving city. She found it strange to watch the different parts of Ba Sing Se pass by through the vantage point of a carriage. No sneaking, no climbing . . . just bumpy roads and a noisy ostrich-horse. And a very talkative Lani with carefully kept boxes of various blades and crates of cooking knives. Zaia had offered to help him make deliveries for his regular slew of customers and, as a result, was able to travel from ring to ring without the need to exert herself. It was nice . . . almost too nice, and she had indulged it all day.
Zaia shook herself from the relaxed position she had melted into. Their mode of transportation was grossly comfortable, and she didn't need to become accustomed to lavish traveling.
The entirety of the morning was spent loading the blades into the carriage, tying them securely and making sure they would not topple off when a bump or dip jostled them. Lani was more particular with it than he ought to have been, but when that was done, they went on to spend the better part of the day delivering lavishly wrapped orders to those of the Upper and Middle Rings.
But it was not the number of deliveries or the distance between them that hoarded so much of their time, no . . . Lani's desperate need for conversation was. It was not necessary by any means; nothing short of exemplary craftsmanship was expected when one heard the name 'Saoma', thus the need to sweeten customers with praiseful words and lengthy discussions of how well-made the blades were was pointless. They did not need to sell in order to sell anymore . . . but that had not been what Lani was doing at all.
The swordsmith called it politeness — indulging wealthy customers as a means to fall into their good graces — though Zaia knew better. He spent his life making blades and as such, ached to talk about them to anyone who was interested. Their customers who dwelled in the Upper Ring were not exactly that, but letting them indulge their egos for the sake of being shown collections of blades they had accumulated over the years was like a treat to Lani . . . and Zaia had no choice but to follow.
She reminded herself never to offer her help when he was making deliveries ever again.
"Wait, how do you know about all of this anyway?"
Zaia shrugged innocently. "I took the liberty of doing my own research."
"Ah, right . . ." Lani raised his brow. "Climbing."
She threw him a pointed look. "Yes, climbing . . ." Zaia looked away from him before mumbling the rest. "I mean, I pay a few of them to keep quiet too, but . . ."
Lani threw her a look of his own. "You little sneak," he smiled.
Zaia had to admit, there was a certain feeling of freedom in having Lani know what she spent her time doing . . . or, at least, to an extent. She no longer had to make up excuses for why she would show up to the smithy tired, or why her limbs ached, or how she knew things about the other rings she would not have known otherwise — knowing that she had been climbing two-story buildings, hopping from roof to roof, was explanation enough. But she could not tell him the reasons for her climbing. She could not talk about her exertions, or why in the world she had bumps and bruises.
Lani was right, there were not many roof crawlers in Ba Sing Se . . . but there were thieves that tried to steal their blades and sell them themselves; there were jealous bladesmiths who hired others to destroy her grandfather's hard work because he was taking away their business. In a way, she understood it; thieves resort to thieving because they lack that which they want. Lowly businessmen do things out of jealousy because they want a bountiful profit of their own.
But that did not mean that either of them was justified.
Zaia took it upon herself to keep some of them from achieving their goals. She knew she could not keep all of them at bay; she was just one girl. She could only sneak and climb and bump into things so much . . . but it felt satisfying knowing she had kept one or two greedy thieves, jealous businessmen, or conniving merchants from crossing her family. Her grandfather had been through enough. He spent years picking up the pieces of the life he had left behind, using them to rebuild a new one. He did not deserve to have it happen to him again.
Their carriage came to a bumpy halt.
"Looks like we're here."
Zaia slid out just as Lani uttered the words, tiptoeing on the cobblestone as if being flat-footed on the ground was strange. It was to her, in a way. Traveling on the ground rather than up above, riding in a carriage that bounced and jerked, was strange in of itself. She felt out of sorts.
"You can hang out here if you want while I take this. I have to deliver a set of potter's knives to Mr. Guo," Lani paused to reach into the carriage, bringing out a small box that jangled under his grip. "Someone broke a bunch of his pots last week and he broke his tools trying to make new ones."
Zaia internally winced. She remembered how the weary building had shaken beneath her when Zuko and the Golden Boy threw each other against the front of the shop; how the poor owner had stomped out into the street, distraught and angry, and dumped his irritation onto Pao all because of the ruckus that had emerged from his own business.
"Right," she said absently.
"Hey, maybe you could grab a cup of tea at Pao's before they close for the night," he suggested, pointing his head towards the building across the street. "I hear he has a new teamaker."
Zaia's thoughts immediately went to the old general, though any semblance of recognition on her face was hidden as she turned to look in the direction of the shop. Pao certainly needed more than a new tea maker; perhaps a re-embellishing of the front and a sign whose words were not peeling off.
She turned back to Lani. "Is that supposed to impress me?"
He shrugged. "Try it. If it impresses the oh-great Tea Connoisseur then I know it'll impress me."
"I am not a 'tea connoisseur'," Zaia objected.
Lani smirked. "Whatever you say."
"Lani! Oh, thank goodness — you've brought them."
The swordsmith's attention was drawn to one very pale-looking but otherwise bright pottery maker trotting towards them.
"Good evening, Mr. Guo! How are things?"
"Oh fine, fine. I've managed to replace most of what had broken, thank goodness. But my tools, as you know, have fallen apart under such work," the older man paused to throw a nasty look across the street before grumbling, "I blame that tea-maker. But no matter! I can always come to your master when trouble arises. To tell you the truth, I don't know what I'd do without Saoma's handiwork. His blades are so precise — and how good is it of him to offer them at such a fair price for us lower-living folk? . . ."
Zaia threw the pair a smirk of her own. She could have laughed at how much he rambled, and even more at the expression on Lani's face as he begrudgingly followed the owner inside, boxes in hand. He would be in there for a while.
Walking over to pet the ostrich horse that pulled their carriage, she contemplated on what to do. She could very well walk into the teashop as Lani suggested, testing General Iroh's tea-making capabilities to see if it really would impress her; no one would object . . . though the looks of shock she may or may not receive from the uncle and nephew upon doing so would be undeniable. And if she was going to receive them, it would be better for that to happen in a place that was not so public.
Or better not to happen at all, a part of her thought. It might be better that they never know you're here.
She might not have battled with this thought had the ache to see someone from home not twirled within her chest. In a way that she could not explain or give a reason for, she yearned to see someone that was not family. Someone who did not know every little nook and cranny in the layout of her mind, but still understood things she could not speak of in a kingdom of green; things she could not speak of with Lani.
She wanted to see countrymen. Kin. A friend . . . maybe even an enemy, if she was desperate enough. For all she knew, the two might very well become her enemies if she allowed them to see her. If she was right, and the dreaded event had reached Zuko's ship . . . then perhaps it was better that they did not know she was there. What good would it do? None — absolutely none, she thought. . . . But if the happenings hadn't reached them?
She sighed at the ostrich horse.
A few people began to flood out of the tea shop, shaking Zaia out of her internal debate. Despite the steady flow of people on the street, it was easy to look inside as they passed. The street she stood on was narrow, not so wide as to skewer the image she saw within the shop. Between the tables, she could spot Zuko's back as he swept the floor. She could see his uncle with a teapot in hand, smiling at a guest tucked away in a corner. By the looks of it, it seemed they were closing early. No other tables were filled . . . it tempted her. Despite her worry, despite her uncertainty, a part of her still felt like throwing caution to the wind.
Though not by walking into the tea shop, no. She could be much more discreet than that and still manage to talk to them. Or one of them.
With a deep breath, Zaia patted the ostrich horse's neck, then moved.
She did not have trouble weaving through groups of people in order to cross the street, nor was it difficult to crawl up onto the makeshift rooves without being seen. No one was paying attention, too engrossed with their own business to notice a girl in black shimmying up one story. With the quiet patter of her shoes across the creaking wood and the steady steps she had long since mastered, it was easy to creep along like the pygmy pumas she rescued. Most people never paid attention to what was above them, they were only concerned with that which occurred around them, what was sneaking behind their backs. It gave her an edge, she supposed.
She felt like a shadow, even in daylight; even now as the last rays of the evening sun brushed against the narrow streets, casting light upon those who she would not otherwise see so clearly from her perch. The Lower Ring looked different compared to what she was used to seeing. There were a few lanterns set aflame, but no shadows danced in the golden hues of their light to tell her who was coming and who was going. She saw faces, and there were few. Fewer than a week and a half ago, at least, when a duel unfolded and a crowd formed around them — large enough to spark rumors, but not large enough to keep them ongoing.
They fizzled out within the second day.
Zaia kept herself informed with the help of her honest tailor. Pak was a kind man, a good man. He had family in the Lower Ring, and they were more than happy to keep a steady stream of gossip flowing. But it was not just his relations that kept him informed. She was not sure if it was because he was kind and good, but whether they were reasons or not, Pak held many secrets close to his chest. He knew the Dai Li were not simply cultural protectors, and he knew that wherever they took the golden boy wouldn't be as simple as jail.
That is a job for city guards, he told her.
The city guards who were there that night did nothing, so where was that boy taken? Was he released? Had he decided to never show his face on this street again? Or was he still detained by the Dai Li?
She had asked Pak these questions, but he hadn't the slightest idea. He did not hold every secret, after all. Zaia knew this well because he hadn't the slightest idea who her family was either. There were enough Earth Kingdom towns turned Fire Nation colonies throughout for it to be believable that she and her mother fled from one of them; that they came to live with her grandfather who clawed his way from a poor village to the status and success of the Upper Ring of Ba Sing Se.
"Lee! Take this outside would you?" General Iroh's voice, loud and clear inside the shop, shook her from her thoughts. "I have some very nice customers to serve our last pot of tea to."
Zaia could not help the smile that twitched onto her lips. For as little time as she had known him, the man was still as kind as she remembered.
The creek of a door opening caught her attention and her head jerked to the right, to the front of the shop where a shadow faintly crept. It was not dark enough for the lanterns to catch the silhouette so clearly, but the angle of the setting sun cast a glow that made people's inky companions stretch tall along the street. When the sun caught it, this one was no different, and it crept along the wall just under the roof of which she sat. She lay flat on her belly, letting her head just barely peek over the edge of the roof.
Zaia had a hunch that the one she would see would be the one she was waiting for, and she was right. Dressed in the same white apron as before, Zuko trudged down the narrow path. He was sulking, with a large bag in one hand.
So he answers to Lee here.
"Why do I always have to take out the garbage," Zuko grumbled.
Zaia rolled her eyes.
The prince disposed of the trash and she decided, despite her hesitancy, that this was as good a time as any. Pushing herself up, Zaia fell into a squat, inched closer to the edge.
She did not have to move much to cause him to halt suddenly; and though he didn't turn, she could see his silhouette tense in the dark of the alley. Zuko stood firm. Zaia moved her foot ever so slightly so the wood under her would creek.
Not even a flinch . . . but eventually, he called out, "Who's there?"
She whistled once, then quickly jumped from her perch, landing right behind him. Zuko turned on his heel, ready to swing his fist and knock his foe to the ground, but Zaia caught his wrist before he could, immediately pulling down her hood.
"You almost knocked me out, Zuzu."
His eyes widened. "Zaia?"
"Okay — well, you didn't almost knock me out, but you were close enough . . ."
Zuko said nothing, but when her grip finally relaxed, he yanked his wrist from her, taking a few steps back.
Her smugness faltered.
"What's wrong?" she tried keeping her voice steady, but the question of whether his answer would be what she was expecting or not hung too heavily in the air for it not to waver at least a little. Zaia tried thinking of another question to ask that would not be so obvious.
"Is there something on my face?"
She knew it was a dumb thing to say. He was utterly dumbfounded by her presence, but the tension that it brought on made her squirm. She had to break it.
"No! No, there — I just . . . What are you doing in Ba Sing Se? Why aren't you back home?"
It took everything in her to keep from flinching at those last words.
"What about you?" she tried, looking between him and the waring side of the tea shop with a look of distaste. The house was even more chipped than some of the rooves she climbed. "I mean, working in a tea shop? That's the least you-thing I've ever seen. And what happened to your ponytail?"
Zuko hesitated for a moment. "I — I had to cut it off . . ." he eventually said before glancing at the side of the tea shop. He didn't even try to hide his grimace. "And believe me, if I had a choice, I wouldn't be working here. This was Uncle's decision."
Ah . . . She glanced back at the shop's side. "Was it also his idea to come to Ba Sing Se? With everything I've heard, I thought you'd be off looking for the Avatar."
"I am!" Zuko blurted. "Or I was — I . . ." The prince faltered, turning away from her gaze. "I don't really know anymore."
Zaia raised a brow. "You don't know if you're still searching for him?"
Zuko grew quiet, glaring at the ground.
"What happened?"
"A lot happened," he said after a moment. "Coming to Ba Sing Se, it got in the way. A lot of things got in the way." His eyes flashed as if he was reliving a memory.
"I was looking for the Avatar. I'd been chasing him for weeks, all the way to the North Pole. But — when I finally had him, something interfered . . ." Zuko's gaze darkened. "His friends interfered."
"His friends?" Zaia echoed.
But Zuko went along as if he never heard her. "I was marked as a failure. We escaped to a village in the Earth Kingdom, but Azula found us. She said that my father had regretted my banishment, that he wanted me to come home . . . but it was all just a trick to keep us from knowing what she was really planning."
Zaia huffed, far less surprised at the princess than she supposed she should have been.
"She meant to imprison us," Zuko added. "So we ran."
"Where did you go?"
"Wherever we could."
"Then why'd you chose Ba Sing Se?"
He blinked. "Why not?"
"Most people who come to the city usually come because they want to start over," Zaia told him. "They want to forget what they left behind, find a new way of living."
Zuko blew out a near humorless laugh. "You sound like Uncle."
She narrowed her eyes. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."
"It's not. It's just not the way I see things."
Her arms crossed. "And how do you see things?"
"I see things as they were," he stated firmly. "I don't want to start over. I want my honor back . . . my destiny."
And what is your destiny? She was about to say it, but a part of her felt he would only tell her what she already knew. Zaia did not have to think hard to know what he meant when he said honor. The desire to end his banishment and come home; after three years, he still yearned for it. She did not blame him . . . she had not wanted to leave either.
"He may have come here for a new life, but I haven't. I haven't given up on finding the Avatar yet. I'm still looking."
"Looking by working in a tea shop?"
Zuko's irritation appeared in the form of suddenly flushed cheeks. "It's not like I asked to work here, okay?" he bit.
"Zuko, not even a minute ago you said you didn't know if you were still searching for the Avatar and now you're saying you are?" Zaia could not help but gawk a little. "Do you even have a plan?"
"I don't need a plan right now," he insisted. "What I need is a way out of here."
"And if you find your way out of here? Then what?"
"When I capture the Avatar, it won't matter. I'll have done what I was meant to do."
Zaia stood silent for a moment, mulling over what he said. "So, you're telling me you intend to find a way out of here, capture the Avatar by whatever means . . . then somehow manage to drag him to the Fire Nation without any problem?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you implied."
"I'll figure it out on the way, alright?" he snapped. "I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Zuko, you won't even get to the way with a plan like that," Zaia said, jutting her hands out.
"Well, if you're so great at plans, then what would yours be?"
"I wouldn't have one at all," she replied honestly. "I'm not trying to leave like you are."
Her answer left him baffled. "Why?"
"Why do you think?" she laughed, completely void of humor. "I'm not exactly welcome in the Fire Nation anymore."
Zuko's irritation immediately faded. He gave her a dubious look. "What are you talking about?"
"What do you mean, what am I talking about? The entire city knew about it within a day."
"Zaia, I was banished. It's not as if I was kept up to date on what went on at home every few weeks."
Zaia blinked, a little taken aback. "You . . . you mean you don't know?"
"Know what?"
He doesn't know what you did.
"Zaia, know what? What don't I know?" Zuko pressed.
She fell quiet. How was she supposed to explain something like this? Why was she in Ba Sing Se? Why wasn't she home, which as far as he could remember, was a place where she lived comfortably? Zaia looked away. Was that why he had been happy to see her?
"Why did you leave home?"
"We didn't just decide to leave, okay?" she blurted. "We — " she paused to take a breath. "We were escaping."
"Escaping?" he parroted in disbelief. "Why would you need to escape?"
She could not help the strained expression she gave. His questions were making her relive the memory: waking up in the middle of the night, forcing her tired legs to move along just so she could keep up with her mother, being lifted into a boat by her uncle. She never saw him again.
Zaia took in a breath and said, "Because, your father tried to have me killed."
The prince's face morphed into utter shock. "But — why? What did you do?"
She lifted her shoulders. "I'm not sure."
"How can you not be sure of something like that?" he almost hissed.
"Because I'm not," she growled. "Okay? One minute I was asleep and the next I was running in the dark towards a boat."
Zuko's shoulders sagged. "How long has it been?"
Zaia shook her head absently. "About a year," she said uncertainly. "A year and a half, I think . . . It's not exactly something I try to remember."
For a moment Zuko simply stared at the tea shop, his brows pinched and his face guilt-stricken. Even if she did not know him as well as others, she still knew what that expression meant.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what? It wasn't your fault."
"No, but it's my fault for what I said. I'm sorry for getting angry."
"Zuko, it's fine."
He nodded at the ground, but his expression stayed solemn. "I wish I had known."
"How could you have? I mean, you said it yourself, it's not like you were told what happened. It was by chance that I even found you here in the first place."
A beat passed, and Zuko furrowed his one brow in confusion. "How did you know we were here?"
"Ah, well," Zaia laughed a little, bashful. "Funny story. I, uh . . . was hiding on one of the roofs across the street about a week ago." She pointed down the alley, towards the pottery shop. "That was when I first saw you."
The prince glanced towards where she pointed, then gave her a look. "You were hiding on a roof?" he echoed slowly.
"Yeah. You know, spying, climbing, walking across buildings."
"Wait — you mean like when you were sitting in trees and climbing the columns in the palace?" Zuko questioned. She nodded. "I thought that was just a phase."
Zaia felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment, laughing in embarrassment once more. "No, not exactly," she said, looking away for a moment before turning back to him. "But, that night, I heard your voice. I saw you fighting with someone — this other guy who was carrying hook swords."
Zuko's eyes widened just the slightest. "Oh . . . yeah. His name was Jet. We met him on the ferry boat here."
"And he just suddenly broke down a door and started accusing you of being firebenders because? . . ."
She could see the prince was trying not to roll his eyes. "Because of Uncle," he grumbled. "I think Jet saw him heat his tea."
"What do you think happened to make him act out like that?"
"I don't know, but I'm not surprised he wanted a fight," Zuko said. "We haven't seen him since."
Zaia glanced down to the dirt. "Because they took him," she mumbled.
"What?"
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it once voices began to pick up on the street. Zaia looked over his shoulder, seeing the familiar creep of the shadows along the walls. "Just keep an eye out for the Dai Li, okay?" she told him, pulling her hood over her head. "It's getting late. I need to head back."
"Wait — Zaia, what are you talking about? And get back to where?"
"Home, dummy. Where do you think?" she said, throwing him a look over her shoulder. "My grandfather has a house in the Upper Ring."
Positioning herself on a stack of crates, Zaia reached for the edge of the roof, hoisting herself up from the casks and onto the wooden surface. Zuko moved to follow.
"But, wait! Who —"
Zaia hushed him, placing a finger to her lips. The prince halted, looked over his shoulder for a moment, then whispered, "Who are the Dai Li?"
"They're the ones who took Jet away. The men in black," she told him quietly. "Just promise you'll be careful, alright? They're not regular guards."
Zuko looked up at her hesitantly, but eventually nodded.
"It's good to see you," Zaia said.
A small smile stretched across his face. "You too."
. . .
〝 two .
Weaving through the tenements and rows of tiny houses, Zaia watched her own shadow through the blur of rain. It crept along the walls, an inky silhouette accompanying her in the cramped spaces whittled between the residences of the Middle Ring. Lanterns hung as the sole source of light, revealing her faceless companion as she passed them. They did their best to keep the streets from seeming so intimidating . . . but little lights could only do so much when one knew the city they stood in. One would think that, perhaps, it was safer to travel in such a place when the sun was over the horizon. The night concealed a plethora of scenes; it hid thieves and the likes of those such as herself; it hid desperate men and golden boys waiting for a fight. It had the potential to be dangerous . . . but Zaia knew better. Ba Sing Se as a whole was safer when the moon hailed over them.
Sunlight was blinding. One could get away with theft and other various crimes much more easily when the star reigned above and the streets filled with the masses. Crowds were good cover for the desperate and the devious; public business kept everyone distracted, and kept the attention away from them . . . but the night left them exposed. No one was there to hide them; nothing was there to distract the ones who policed the night from their activities. The streets were open, and the roofs were occupied.
Though she could not climb on the ones she passed tonight; ironically, the roofs of the financial part of the district were too fragile, too noisy. Most merchant families lived under them, and she did not want to rouse a jumpy wife who could potentially wake and worry her husband's enemies might have come for them. She did not want to attract the attention of the men in black, not when she was determined to reach her destination unnoticed.
Zaia made a point to avoid windows (whether lit or devoid of a warm presence) and settled for creeping through the somewhat roomy spaces between the houses as the rain fell, splatters completely masking her already quiet footsteps. The financial district was (understandably) the most panicky out of the three. They kept their doors locked tight and their safes even tighter, filled with accounts, records, and money of their own. They were, as she knew them, very jumpy people.
But it made sense. If you worked with money, you were guaranteed to find an enemy or two — especially if your client had an array of them already, willing to kidnap or kill financial advisors and bookkeepers in order to gather their secrets or drain them of their money. She supposed this was why a handful of them tended to fall into the game themselves, standing alongside the likes of greedy merchants and greedy officials.
The public might as well have murmured 'the greedy city' alongside 'city of walls and secrets'.
Zaia, however, would have opted to call it the rainy city.
Every time a cloud grew dark or a thunderclap rang throughout, when the patter of droplets ensued, she thanked Pak for being as skilled of a tailor as he was. She thanked him for being so generous, too. Not only did he create the cloak she was utterly smitten with, but he also made it capable of shielding her from the rain without becoming drenched itself. He stitched a roll of wool over the original fabric; a layer that was strangely undetectable, but there all the same; it did its job, and tonight was no exception.
Even so, Zaia could feel the paper tucked behind her cloak bend and crunch and began to wonder whether it was completely protected from the rain trailing down her cloak. The pencil she had put there as well was mysteriously lacking, hands unable to feel for where it was. She would have to dig for it. She would have to draw quickly too. The rain was only becoming heavier as her time under it went along.
If only the roofs in this part of the ring weren't so spirits-forsakenly thin.
Zaia may have been small, able to sneak across other roofs without making a sound . . . but she was not that small. If she was, perhaps she would have been able to climb up, take a look at her surroundings, and remember where to go.
Even if she could, though, she supposed it would not help much. When she followed the lemur and pygmy pumas, she had not paid attention to the path they took. She could not recall how they had reached the footprint, only that the buildings she passed were apartment buildings, and the lanterns were numerous. Right now, she was still among a few houses and approaching the back of a gift shop. She had passed Pak's shop perhaps a few minutes ago . . .
Zaia came to halt, stomping her foot on the wet stone. Everything looked so different from the ground.
She looked to her left, analyzing a small house with a green-tiled roof. No lanterns hung from it, and the door was particularly small. She did not recognize it.
She turned to her right. A restaurant sat across the street, devoid of light as well. Its outside tables were empty and the chairs were stacked up. A cooking fire had most likely not burned inside for a while . . . but she sniffed anyway.
Wait. That smell was familiar. Zaia sniffed again. Roast . . . duck? That was what I smelled when I left Pak's shop.
Zaia squinted through the rain to read the name on the side. Spirits, she wanted to slap herself.
How the smell still lingered after hours and against the smell of rain, she did not want to know. What she wanted to know was how she managed to walk in a circle, ending up at the same place she had been a few minutes ago.
"Sure, I can climb up on a roof and tell you where all the elephant rats hang out," she murmured to herself. "But when I'm on the ground I can't even walk in a straight line — are you kidding?"
Zaia shook her head, returning to the reason why she came there, to begin with: finding the footprint. With a decided huff, she chose to head to her right, past the restaurant. She may not have been able to remember where the footprint was, but she did know that when she ran after the animals, they put great distance between themselves and Pak's shop. So that was exactly what she did.
Though . . . it was not long before everything began to look the same again. Zaia knew that it was more than appropriate to call Ba Sing Se a labyrinth city. The number of paths, roads, and hidden walkways was enough to make it a maze . . . but, the thing is, it had never felt like one to her. Not when she was up high, above ground level where she was able to see everything.
On the ground, she felt cramped. Trapped, even. Whittling between houses was manageable, tiptoeing through tight corners and cramped spaces between the apartments was alright. It was the lack of easy ways up to the roofs that made her anxious. There was no simple, quick way to climb if she needed to.
She had pushed past it for the sake of remaining discreet . . . but after so long, she could feel it begin to catch up with her. Though, Zaia reminded herself that the footprint had been in a much more open space — a square, if you would, with roofs sagging over entrances and crates stacked to the skies, giving her an easy escape route.
But nothing around her resembled such. Everything looked the same. Apartment buildings mirrored each other, thunder clapped and lightning illuminated the shadows for mere moments before plunging everything back into darkness. Against her hopes, there were no lanterns near these apartments. Nothing to reveal her faceless companion.
Zaia felt as exposed as the thieves who dreaded the night as if she was at the beginning of a bad dream and continuing to walk would only make it worse . . . and yet. She knew staying in one place was a bad idea, so she made herself move.
At the very least, the rain was holding out on becoming a downpour. With her eyes adjusted to the night, she could still see ahead to some degree.
Think, Zaia. Which way had she gone? Where had the pygmy pumas led them? Where was that forsaken footprint —
Something shuffled behind her.
Zaia turned immediately, bending into a defensive position. Though her eyes had adjusted, it was still tricky to see in the dark when rain was falling. The drops blurred images, movement that would have been easier to catch on a dry night. Still, she scanned her surroundings, opened her ear for any shift in the alleys or twig snapping.
Nothing.
Eventually, she took in a breath and continued walking.
In the distance, she could begin to see a lantern or two, which gave her hope that she had finally gone the right way. Zaia maneuvered around a pile of fallen crates, walked through the space between two oddly-placed, shorter buildings. It was starting to look right, at least. She could no longer see any indication of green-tiled roofs or catch the lingering smell of duck, and the lanterns were starting to increase in numbers.
Zaia paused to take in her new surroundings for a moment . . . Thunder clapped, lightning flashed.
She caught something move in the corner of her eye.
Her head jerked to the right.
This was why she stuck to walking along roofs . . . aside from her poor sense of direction. Nothing could sneak up on you when you were the only one sitting that high.
Something shuffled near her once more.
Get up there now. Go.
Forget being discreet. She wanted to retreat to more familiar terrain, to preserve herself in case there was another shadow following, to play it safe . . . But with the shower, if she did, she would not be able to find what she was looking for. This giant, three-toed footprint might have been washed away or brushed into nothing for all she knew; and even if it had not, the only way she would be able to know for sure was by staying on the ground.
So what if someone is following me, she tried reasoning with herself. I'm prepared . . . I think.
Admittedly, the only time Zaia ever truly felt prepared to throw a kick or a punch was when she could see her opponent coming — and most times, when she finally showed herself, she never did have to throw a kick or a punch. They were too startled, those she faced. She had never been in a situation where someone could see her and she could not see them. It was new, unfamilair . . . she did not like it. And it was because she did not like it that she began to take quick steps without any sense of where she was going.
She had been lackadaisical with her search, no worry of being drenched anywhere but her feet . . . but after swearing she saw something move, having that that feeling of being watched slithered up her spine, she was no longer lackadaisical, no longer devoid of worry. She would rather not lie to herself and try to believe that she was not growing wary. She had taught herself to control her breath in such situations, but the increase in her heartbeat was undeniable. She was unnerved, but she was not scared . . . yet.
If this feeling persisted, and she failed to find the large footprint, then she would go home. Her curiosity was strong . . . but even a roof crawler had her limits.
Something hissed.
Zaia jumped, turned to face the front door of an apartment building. There, sitting under a fallen fruit crate, rather than her impending doom . . . sat a pygmy-puma. She let out a heavier sigh than expected, placing a hand over her heart. When Zaia looked up, the puma was still there, observing her.
The feline's eyes glowed an odd shade of yellow, piercing through the darkness around them. She could barely see the rest of its body, but the eyes stood out like two little flames, boring into her in a way that was almost unsettling.
When she stared back, Zaia began to wonder. She knew all pygmy-pumas more or less looked the same . . . but could it be one of the felines she had saved?
"Hey — are you? . . ." she never finished her quiet sentence. The pygmy-puma meowed at her, then darted off towards where the lanterns shed their light.
"Hey!" she whisper-yelled. "Wait!"
She felt as if she was reliving a moment, running through alleys, slipping by crates, jumping over obstacles just so she wouldn't lose sight of the pygmy-puma. There was no lemur to accompany her, and there was no sunlight to illuminate her path. Zaia could barely see under the poor of the rain; it was only becoming heavier, and her quick footsteps were not so sound slapping on wet stone and squishing through the mud. Her shoes were soiled, she was not as surefooted . . . but she had no room in her mind to focus on any of that. All she cared about was keeping up with this cat — a weird, heavy urge as if following the animal would lead her to something as it had the last time.
When the pygmy-puma finally came to a halt, perching itself on a table nearby. . . Zaia almost leaped for joy.
She couldn't believe it. There, before her as if it had been under her nose the whole time, was the footprint the lemur had lept into mere days ago. The one she had traced with her finger and would now trace with chalk.
"Oh, I love you!" she whisper-yelled to the pygmy-puma.
As if it understood her, the feline meowed in response.
Zaia felt almost giddy, hurriedly walking up to the footprint and digging through her coat, trying to find the paper she had brought with her. She hoped it would be big enough; if not, then she would have to copy it down by eye, and quickly. If the intensity of the rain was bad for her vision, then it was even worse for the paper she was about to pull out. Not only that, but the footprint was starting to blur. The once-dried print was now reforming into mud with the puddle of water in it; and though mimicking the shape of it was not entirely necessary, she had hoped she would be able to show her mother rather than attempt to explain just what it was she had seen. Her mother was the one who had educated her on the animals of the four nations, and Zaia figured that, if she was to ask anyone, it would be her.
Zaia tried to work as quickly as she could. Again, a physical image of the footprint was not necessary . . . though, if she was being honest with herself, her reason for wanting to find it again was not solely to draw it. She felt the urge to return simply because she wanted to; to inspect it closer, to look at the surrounding buildings, survey the roofs for traces of a former presence. She wondered faintly if the Dai Lee had seen this footprint, if they knew of its existence and were trying to solve the mystery of it themselves.
Her drawing was very messy. She had bent over it as much as she could while she drew, though the dark, cloudy skies above gave no indication of clearing, and her paper was beginning to get wet. Hastily, Zaia resigned and tucked it back into her cloak, deciding what she had was good enough. In the very least, she could return home and make a better copy of it now that she had something to work off of.
Just then, the pygmy-puma hissed.
Zaia stood alert, jerking slightly towards the creature. The feline's eyes were aglow with a new emotion, a sudden fear and defensive anger towards something it had seen. Zaia turned to where pygmy-puma had pinned its gaze, casting her own into the shadows. The inky companions of hers that stretched long and warned her were not identifiable in such darkness. The night was pitch black and her vision, however adjusted, was ever limited.
Perhaps it was her mind playing tricks on her; though, even with the patter of the rain, she could have sworn she heard something shuffle. It was not the pygmy -puma. The feline had hopped off its perch and approached her leg by then, curling around it as if she would offer protection. She could most certainly try . . . though Zaia couldn't deny the way her heart begin to pound.
For a moment, she tried with all her might to search through the darkness; though after that moment passed, she immediately knelt down to pick up the pygmy-puma. They needed to get out of there, not wait around for something to snatch them.
She should have done so earlier . . . because no sooner had she turned around did Zaia finally spot that which had startled her friend.
A feeling of dread pooled in her stomach at the sight of a black figure before her.
Though before Zaia could so much as gasp, before she could do anything at all, a hand made of rock clamped over her mouth. The stone gritted roughly against her chin, and she could feel a slight sting on her jaw where the skin had been scraped. The sting, however, along with her uncontrollable, rapid heartbeat was all she was able to register before the ground gave way under her, taking the pygmy-puma and man in black with her.
The earth swallowed them whole.
. . .