"Want some girl, foreigner?"
I brought a hand up to push my lenses back into place. The flesh vendor's eye widened as he caught the silver numbers printed around my wrist.
"Sorry mister. I wasn't to keen ya as Pure. Mistaken I. Not report me will ya? Forgive me. Ya don't look as the rest of 'em."
No, I didn't look like the rest of them.
The fear in his voice carried to the bodies-for-rent caged behind the stall front. The females and small boys locked inside took up a soft croon, acknowledging my presence made their future that much more uncertain. Anxiety increased as an electric hummer printed with blue checks pulled to a stop next to us. Law enforcement stepped out in the form of two hairless men outfitted in the standard uniform.
The larger of the policeman approached. "So Bengy, how's tricks?" he greeted the vendor.
'Bengy' looked at me quickly, his eyes pleading, before turning to answer. "Findy fine Officer-sir," he managed.
The officer tilted his head quizzically before asking after his order. "Any luck with the brunettes?"
"Located ya two, but could no get 'em pre-twelve…" was the last heard as I walked away, the vendor no doubt enjoying the sight of my retreating back. Had the policeman known Bengy was trying to sell sexflesh to a Pure they would have executed the man where he stood.
The crowds swarmed through the markets, mere temperature not enough to discourage business. The larger livestock sweated, alongside the people selling them as meat, but my nose failed to detect perspiration under the heady scent drifting from the many perfumers and incense dealers.
There was no place one could go in the massive and misnamed Traders' Square and avoid the hawkers, buskers, auctioneers, curious tourists, bored locals, pickpockets, Freaks, beggers, not to mention the vendors that lined the seven walls on several levels and the space surrounding the central fountain. The markets were famous for selling everything: harmless frivolities to death bringing vice. It seemed to bother none that this happened on the Pope's doorstep.
Having not found anything I wanted to buy and becoming irate at the continued invasion of personal space I looked for an easy path out of the noise, dust and chaos. A distant, aureate glow flickered, catching my attention, spelling out my doom in the corner of my vision.
The sun was in just the right spot to make the golden roof of the City Cathedral light up.
Years of discipline and retraining couldn't stop me turning east and facing the House of God. Old compulsion tried to make willing feet walk towards the Cathedral, only the realisation clenched fists had made the fingernails break the skin of my palm stopped me from moving. I shook my head and found the pressure taken from invisible hooks embedded there.
My return to the City wasn't going to be easy, but, I was relieved to find, not impossible. The programming held. Sub-vocalising the Lore of Robert I pushed my way out through the crowds, escaping in the direction opposite to the Cathedral.
"No Pure shall wear the black hat, no pure shall wear the black hate, no pure shall wear the black slate, no Pure shall wear the black hat, no Pure shall wear the black hate, no Pure..." and on. The Lore was an old shackle, yet a comfortable one.
I was nearly clear of Traders' Square when a voice, barely audible, whispered a name that stopped me, shocking me to stillness.
"Jacob."
An impossibility. An identity burnt away with my boyhood. Only my mind assigned it significance, but,
"Jacob."
Millions of mothers had christened their children with those syllables, but, again,
"Jacob."
And it held me like the House of God could not.
Looking down I found dead eyes staring back at me. A girl not yet in her teens sat with a sickly hen and a call for tenders - 'Fresh Eggs' roughly painted on the piece of cupboard leaning against her legs. I suffered no belief the sign was offering breakfast produce, nor that the bird was anything other than a prop, part of a thin disguise meant to be broken. Doubts confirmed a moment later when a balding salesman dressed in stained surgeons' whites placed a heavy hand on the girl's shoulder and smiled at me with commercial sincerity.
"Interested sir? She's older than she looks and has many happy customers, all who have provided references and photographs. A four star Certificate of Health."
He must have sensed my interest even while mistaking my intent. Before I could say anything he'd grabbed the collar of her smock and pulled her to her feet. Routine guided her through the rest of the sales presentation as she untied the garmet and removed it.