Hassa didn’t sign back, because she had heard them—the cause of their danger.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Officers were above the Maroon.
Hassa pulled her satchel off her shoulder and threw it into the chaos of bodies in the center of the dance floor. The dancers had heard the boots too; they knew what was coming.
“It’s a raid!”
“A raid! Quick, hide the firerum.”
“Under the hatch.”
“Grab the joba seeds, swallow them!”
The Maroon door was kicked open with excessive force. There was a moment where everyone held their breath as the officers made their way down the stairs.
The purple blazers of the army rippled out across the tavern.
“Empty pockets, empty bags, I want to see everything you’ve got. And if you’re hiding anything, we will find it. We will search you down to your marrow,” the captain of the platoon shouted. His short curls were twisted into coils above a thick brow and strong jawline. He would have been attractive if he didn’t hold everyone’s life in his hands.
Hassa shivered, and Marigold touched her arm.
Keep your eyes lowered now, child.
Hassa knew the routine: be as invisible as you can be.
There were twelve officers working under the captain’s orders, and they began to probe the quaking Dusters and Ghostings with practiced brutality. Hands grabbed and slapped and punched. Runeguns were pointed left and right—Hassa was sure that if they used bloodwerk to release the bullets, they’d hit everyone including themselves.
It had been years since the Maroon was last raided. The officers often kept their violent intrusions to single dwellings or taverns not frequented by Loot’s Gummers.
Hassa saw the outline of black, shiny boots enter her vision. Her dirty toes curled over the lip of her too-small rubber sandals. She felt the officer’s hot breath on her shaven scalp.
“Hello there, Ghostings. Not peddling your junk today?” His small hands slithered over Hassa’s baggy uniform searching for hidden pockets.
Hassa shook her head slowly, with purpose. No sudden movements.
His hand ran along the kente waistband in the colors of the Keep.
“Servant for the wardens, are we?”
Sometimes, Hassa thought, but she didn’t respond.
The officer kicked her in the shin.
“You really are the dregs of the empire. Even if you had a tongue, I bet you couldn’t talk. Too stupid.”
Eventually the officer moved on.
Hassa added her rage to the burning coals that were always glowing white in her mind. Ghostings were the dregs of the empire because Embers made them that way. Even Dusters thought they were lesser. They were all wrong. They didn’t know the truth.
Hassa saw a glint of gold from the corner of her eye as one of the Gummers presented his crime guild token to the captain with a confident swagger. The captain reached for the coin in the Gummer’s outstretched hand.
“You think this cheap bit of metal’s going to save you? Don’t give a shit who you are.” The token was thrown to the sticky ground, not far from Hassa’s satchel.
The Gummer’s mouth fell open to reveal bright red teeth.
“But I’m a Gummer, I work for the Warden of Crime. You normally”—he looked around and dropped his voice—“let us go.”