Those Human Hungers: Prologue

“Where can I can find Albina Zhafaria?”

I had asked the question thousands of times over the last six months. I had asked in seedy pubs and high-class clubs. I had spoken with socialites and aristocrats, factory workers and union sympathizers, slaves and vagrants.

Those of a more respectable class vehemently denied any connection or contact. Those of lesser means gave more varied answers. Some, eager at the possibility of a reward, had showered me with rumors and gossip of her whereabouts. Others shunned me, suspicious that I was a government Nablye or industry spy. Most, however, responded with puzzled denials.

On this particular rainy evening I was in a smelly dockworkers pub. The two men across from me were dressed in worn wool shirts and trousers, their dripping wax canvas capes draped over the backs’ of their chairs.

The younger man glanced at his grizzled companion. It was only the slightest of movements, a questioning tilt of the eyes, but my heart leapt. With a profound act of will I kept any sign of my excitement from leaking onto my face.

The elder didn’t react to his friend’s inquisitive look. He was lean, with a thin beard and small spectacles, and a purplish birthmark splashed across the right side of his face. The puzzled frown he gave me might have been convincing if he’d brought a companion more apt at deception.

“Zhafaria? That Unnatural Philosopher witch? Do we look like the kind of people that would know her?” His surprisingly cultured accent belayed both his clothing and his protestation.

“I heard there was a… gathering here, a couple days ago, and that her name was mentioned.”

“A gathering?”

“You know…” I leaned, both forward and into my naive persona, “a union meeting. I heard tell that she’s working with union sympathizers.”
He matched me, our eyes less than a foot apart. “Its a dangerous time to be bandying about talk of unions, son.”

“I’m not a spook!” I hissed. “I’m a reporter. I write for the Zemley Gazette.”

“And you are looking for Albina Zhafaria because…?”

“I want to write a piece on her!”

The mean leaned back in his chair. “Why?”

“Why? Because she’s Albina Zhafaria! She is probably the most famous woman in Belstra!” After a moment’s pause, I ladled on a dose of self-interest. “An exclusive piece on her would make my career!”

“Infamous, more like. Surely there are safer ways to make a name for yourself than seeking wanted criminals?”

“Only if I seek a lesser name.”

He sighed. “The world might be a better place if more men were content with lesser names. But, today is your lucky day.”

Oh yes it was.

“You know where I can find her?”

“Even better. I’ll take you to her right now.”

My eagerness shriveled. “Right now? It’s late.”

He smiled broadly, but the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. His teeth were as out of place as his accent, straight and white. “Your persistence has paid off, Kazimir. Zhafaria has heard of your passionate pursuit of an interview with her, and has decided to grant your request.”

The old man’s companion shifted nervously, touching something hidden beneath his coat.

I briefly considered making a break it, then discarded the notion. I’d worked too long to jeopardize this now. I’d just have to improvise.

“Well, marvelous! Lead me to her.”

“One thing, first.” He reached into his breast pocket and placed a small metal capsule on the table in front of me. “Do you know what this is?”

My heart sunk further. As with my prior elation, I didn’t let the feeling impact my expression. “No?”

“It’s a kill capsule. Filled with poison. If you deepwalk with this in your stomach, you’re dead in an hour. If you want to meet with Albina, you’ll need to swallow it.”

I tentatively took the capsule, rolling it in my hands. “Is this really necessary?”

“It is if you want to meet her.”

I hesitated appropriately, then knocked the pill back. It slid down my throat, a cold and lethal lump.

“Now, we are going to stand up and go outside. We have a wagon waiting. You will walk slowly, and once we get to the wagon you will be blindfolded.” He picked up his cane and pushed himself to his feet.

I did as instructed. I slid out from the booth and started to walk towards the door. As I walked, I closed my eyes, my Goru-blessed senses guiding my footsteps as I felt outward for other Deepwalkers. There were a couple in the pub, though neither were my erstwhile drinking companions. There was also one outside and to the right of the door. Likely an accomplice.

I opened my eyes as I exited. The rain had stopped, and the last rays of evening shone over the snow-ridden mountain peaks, obscured by fog from the industrial buildings on the opposite riverbank. Yesamine flowed placidly by, its surface glistening with factory offal.

A lean young woman strode up to me purposefully, dressed in dark deepwalker gambeson[[ Gambeson or leather?]] and the rather grandiloquent affection of a bandoleer lined with bone knives. How many men was she expecting to kill tonight? However, her impassive countenance and the ugly scar across her face suggested she’d not taken timidly to her years of military service.
“This is the journalist?”

“Of course it’s the journalist,” The older man said as he walked out the door behind me, “why else would we have brought him out?”

The woman’s expression didn’t change, but I thought I saw a tinge of red on her cheeks. “He’s a deepwalker.”

“We pilled him. He’s not deepwalking anywhere if he wants to stay alive. Brig, grab the wagon!”

We rode in companionable silence, by which I mean we were technically companions and definitely silent. I could just see the moon through the blindfold they had put over my eyes. A chill mountain wind cut through my coat. The ride was interminable. I breathed in the chill air, seeking to quell the excited beating of my heart. Whether it was indeed Zhafaria that awaited at the end of this ride, or an unmarked grave, the hunt was finally over.

Eventually we arrived. I was led through a door and up a flight of stairs before they removed my blindfold to reveal my new boudoir. It had a bed, and that was the most that could be said for it. There were also bars instead of a proper door. The walls were cracked plaster, the air unpleasantly cool and smelling of dust. These unionists were not living in the lap of luxury.

“I thought you were taking me to meet Zhafaria.” I said tremulously. “You can’t hold me here!”

“There has been more than one attempt on her life. We need to take proper precautions. She’s not available this evening. Tomorrow morning. I apologize for the poor accommodation.”

He departed, and I was left to sit on the lumpy cot and watch my guards play cards.

“Deal me in for a hand?” I asked. Their silence eloquently spoke to the opaque mysteries of venture and gain. With a forlorn sigh, I pulled the blanket over myself and settled down for an uncomfortable sleep.

I was awoken by the sound of metal on metal. The old man stood at the door, rattling a spoon against the bars.

“Come get your breakfast.”

I stretched, and walked over to the door. He handed me a bowl of unappetizing gruel. “Eat up, and then I’ll take you to meet Albina.”
One unappealing meal, a pat down, and a short walk later, I was standing in front of a door guarded by a man who looked burley and surely in equal measure.

“Here’s the journalist. Is she ready.”
“Of course. She needs to sleep more, Iosif."

“You think I haven’t told her? The days where she followed my advice are long gone.”

The guard stepped aside, and I was ushered through the door.

“Here he is, Albina.”

“Thank you Iosif. Sten, please wait outside.”

The guard hesitated. “Madam, I think it would be better if…”

“Outside, Sten. You’ve searched him. If he’s an assassin, I’ll call you.”

The door closed behind me, and I was left with the object of my half-year quest.

She was sitting across a table from me puffing on a long thin cigarillo. Dark circles under her eyes, but a disconcertingly piercing gaze. Spiky gray hair that looked like it hadn’t been properly cut in months.

A missing finger on her right hand, a dramatic scar across one cheek. Tall, broad in the shoulders. The popular papers called her mannish. Seeing her in person, I found myself unable to agree. She certainly would never have been the epitome of Belstrian beauty, but, even well past her prime, she radiated strength. She reminded me of a statue I’d seen in a noble’s collection that had been liberated from a southern jungle tribe by Babalaske explorers. Rough, raw, a shape that had been latent in the stone. An expression of primal femininity, perhaps, an object of worship for an effeminate culture.

This impression may have sprung less readily to mind but for her bizarre choices in accessorization. A series of disconcerting insectile hieroglyphics ran up her left arm and under her military leather shirt, emerging from her collar to climb the side of her neck and face and terminating in a claw-like pictograph that cradled her left eye. She wore a necklace of thin wooden charms engraved with intricate blocky patterns.

Her arthritic fingers tapped on the table. A jug of water and two drinking bowls were set between us, alongside a small plate with cheese and fruit, an out of place invitation in what had thus far been a very inhospitable welcome.

“Hello Kazimir.” Her voice is low, with an undertone of smoker’s gravel. “I have not been pursued so relentlessly by a young man in many years. You’re tenacity is impressive.”

“Thank you, though I admit I was not expecting to be kidnapped as part of the process.” I smiled, showing off my pearly whites. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

She gave me a smile of her own, her teeth straight but tobacco brown, and gestured towards the seat opposite. “So, why have you been searching for me so diligently these last few months?”

“Well, as I told your man Iosif yesterday, I want to write a piece on you. Surely that is why you have brought me here?”

“My story is well known in Belstra. I’ve heard they’ve even made a play out of it.”

“A propaganda piece. That’s all anyone knows. Albina Zhafaria, member of the Unnatural Philosophers, enemy of the state, union sympathizer, sexual deviant and eater of children. I’ve done my research though, and I’ve read your papers. I think the public has a right to know your side of the story.”

“Impressive that you’ve read my work, given that any copies are routinely confiscated and destroyed.”

“It took a decent amount of sleuthing to find intact copies. But people are interested. There is a lot of unrest right now because of the factories, because of the war effort. If you put out something new, people would read it.”

She took a draw of her cigarillo. “And you’re the man to write it?”

I shrugged. “I’ve read some of your papers. Your writing is a dry vintage. I also doubt any of these proles are much for writing.

She nodded, conceding the point. “I am much better at being factual than literary. You know doing this will have repercussions? They will likely arrest you, or worse.”

“I have connections, and an established reputation. Worst comes to worst, I’ll lie low for a few years.

She gave me a skeptical look, but did not press the point further. “If you are going to write this piece, I am afraid we will be confining you for the duration of your visit. My associates and I are not on the best of terms with the authorities, so we need to take certain precautions.”

“I can work with that, though I’d ask for a nicer bed and better food.”

She laughed. “Soft boy. Your bed and food are no different from anyone else’s here. We can move you out of the holding cell, but unfortunately we will need to maintain a guard at your door.” I suppressed a moment’s irritation as she continued. “I will not be available every day of your visit, unfortunately. I will devote as much time as I am able.” She held out her hand, and we shook. Her fingers were calloused, her grip firm.

“Sten!” She called.

The door creaked open. “Yes, my lady.”

“Please retrieve writing materials for our guest.”

“Of course.”

A couple of minute later, pen, paper and inkpot close to hand, I nodded at Albina encouragingly. “I am ready to begin when you are.”

“Hmm. Give me a moment. I need to organize my thoughts.”

For a couple of minutes she stared into the distance of her past, brows knit and fingers steepled. Then she began to speak.
“I remember, one summer when I was eleven, when I was out in the forest and investigating the inner workings of worms….”