A frigid draft tore through the chinks in the timber, rattling the single glass pane. Sarine's knuckles whitened against the medicinal taproot. Its fibrous crest shone faintly under her palm, stamped with the mark of the district seat. “Impossible,” Tavner whispered, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed on the glowing mark. “That’s… that’s from the prefecture's personal vault, secured with spatial wards. No one can bypass those. Not even Master Elion at the academy.” Sarine felt a familiar weariness settle deep in her bones. This was no longer a simple bribe, but high treason against the regional ministry. Sarine felt the damp cold seep through her cuffs. All she wanted was twelve unbroken hours on a dry mattress, far from rations, coal queues, and petty tyrants. A distant, guttural roar sliced through the pre-dawn quiet. The sound of heavy motor-wagons on the frozen road. Then, a cacophony of shouts, sharp commands, and the frantic barking of dogs. The air grew thick with exhaust fumes and damp wool. “They’re here,” Tavner said, gripping the edge of the hearth. He looked at the children, still sleeping soundly in the corner, warmed by the fire. Sarine, however, felt a different kind of annoyance. They couldn’t even wait until morning? Her brief moment of peace, shattered. She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, the image of a soft, silken pillow filling her mind. She needed to deal with this, quickly, so she could return to that imagined comfort. Heavy boots crunched on the packed snow outside. A harsh light, cutting through the thin curtains, swept across the room. The children stirred, whimpering softly. Tavner reached for the iron poker by the hearth, a futile gesture against what was coming. “Stay calm,” Sarine murmured, her voice flat. She slid the marked taproot into the lining of her oversized coat, the warm pulse pressing through her wool skirt. “Don’t say a word.” The door burst open with a splintering crash. Two hulking men in black, their faces grim, stormed into the small dwelling. Behind them, silhouetted against a carbide lantern, stood an officer in an iron-grey tunic with silver collar tabs: Vorlag, the prefecture's senior hound. His stare drifted past Sarine to Tavner, then settled on the trundle bed. “Search every board!” Vorlag commanded. “Turn up the stolen rations. Find whoever cracked the vault seal.” The two patrolmen kicked aside the bench, ripping straw mattresses open and upending the washbasin. Tavner stood rigid, his hand still on the poker, his face pale. Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoed from outside. “She’s in here! The witch! The thief!” Madam Dal stumbled into the doorway, her right wrist swollen and purpling, a gruesome angle to her hand. Her face was a mask of furious triumph, her eyes glittering with malice. She pointed her good, trembling left hand directly at Sarine. “She did it! Sarine Dal! She’s been hoarding things! Contraband! I saw her!” Madam Dal’s voice was hoarse, raw from screaming in the woodshed, but her conviction was absolute. “She locked me up! She’s mad! She’s the mastermind!” Vorlag turned toward Sarine, lips thinning into a cold line. “A family dispute, is it? How convenient. A scorned mother-in-law, a neglected wife. A tale as old as the Republic. But you implicate her in a state crime. Be careful, woman. False accusation carries a heavy penalty.” “It’s true!” Madam Dal insisted, her eyes wide with a manic glee. “She has illicit provisions! Rare medicine! And she attacked me—snapped my wrist! She brought a marked tuber through the door an hour ago!” Sarine suppressed a sigh. The noise. The drama. It was all so utterly exhausting. She sank back into her rickety chair by the hearth, her hand still resting on the bulge in her coat pocket. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a bulky, canvas-wrapped bundle near the door. Madam Dal's younger son had lashed it together the previous night, preparing for his journey toward the technical institute where an uncle had bought him a clerkship. The boy clutched his bundle, backing against the partition. “I have nothing illicit, sir! I hold a travel pass for the institute! My papers are stamped!” Sarine felt a flicker of an idea, a tiny spark of ruthlessness in the depths of her fatigue. She closed her eyes, focusing. The world around her seemed to shimmer, but only to her internal perception. She visualized the root tucked beneath her ribs, tracing the boundary between her coat and the boy's canvas bag across the floor. She pictured the space inside it, nestled amongst his meager belongings. With a silent shift, the root vanished from her hem, reappearing inside the tied sack by the door. “Search the boy’s luggage!” Madam Dal shrieked, her voice cracking. “He’s hiding something for her! He always does!” She was desperate to pin it on anyone but herself, or rather, anyone but her golden child. Vorlag gestured toward the sack. “Open it.” Kaelus protested, his voice high-pitched and panicked. “No! Those are personal effects! My enrollment papers are in there!” The patrolman cut the twine with a belt knife, tossing aside woolen stockings and drafting calipers until his fingers closed around something thick and warm. He hauled it out into the lantern light. Held high in the constable's leather glove, the pale root shone, the prefectural bird clearly visible on its bark. The boy stumbled backward against the wall, staring at the root as if it were a live copperhead. “No! That’s not mine! I’ve never seen that before!” Madam Dal stared, her mouth agape, her accusations dying on her lips. Her eyes darted from the root to Sarine, a dawning horror twisting her features. Sarine, meanwhile, reached for the ceramic cup of lukewarm, herbal tea that Tavner had brewed for her earlier. She took a slow, deliberate sip, the bitter liquid a sharp contrast to the sudden, profound calm settling over her. “Sir,” the patrolman said, turning it toward his superior. “Vault marks intact.” Vorlag took the medicinal root, turning to the trembling youth. “Plundering emergency depots before matriculation? You can report to the ore quarries instead.” Kaelus let out a raw, desperate sob. “No! Please! I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me! Mother! Tell them!” He looked at Madam Dal, his eyes pleading, utterly broken. Madam Dal, frozen, could only watch, her face a ghastly shade of grey. Her golden child, her future, her ticket out of this village, was being dragged away. She had accused Sarine, but somehow, the evidence had appeared in Kaelus’s hands. The two patrolmen hauled the boy through the threshold, ignoring his thrashing as his boots dragged across the icy porch. He thrashed, crying for his mother, for mercy, but the black-clad men were unyielding. The motor-wagons roared to life, their engines coughing thick, acrid smoke. Sarine took another slow sip of her tea, watching the scene with quiet detachment. The silence after Kaelus’s screams faded was almost blissful. Her head felt clearer, the exhaustion a little less oppressive. One problem, ruthlessly dealt with. Now, perhaps, a moment of peace. As the tailpipe fumes cleared, Vorlag threw one final glance toward Sarine, then stepped into the ruts behind his men. Elder Murna, the village matriarch, who had been standing silently by her own doorway, a shawl wrapped tightly around her head, slowly approached Sarine’s threshold. Her weathered face was devoid of emotion, her eyes ancient and knowing. She looked at Sarine, a flicker of something Sarine couldn’t quite decipher in their depths. She leaned down, her voice a low murmur, barely audible over the receding engine noise. “I know how you reached past the prefecture's spatial wards.”

Luggage and Lies