The council hadn’t been impressed by my literacy. The citizens of Cagmar must have a good schooling system. Before coming here I’d expected only training fields, weight rooms, anything denoting strength and war and prowess. Though admittedly, my knowledge of trolls was limited to rumors and tall tales.
Azmar draws swift, straight lines, forming arches and triangles, rooms and what I suppose are roads. He labels them, though his handwriting is not nearly as neat as the sketch. I notice the absence of any of the turquoise beading I’ve seen on many of the other trolls. Indeed, Azmar lacks any sort of décor, unless one counts the pencil sticking out of the knot at the back of his head.
“You’re here.” He draws a sort of star near the center of the map. “The market is here.” His low voice bears that peculiar troll lilt, but it isn’t unfriendly. He adds two small triangles. “This is the food handlers, this is the Rooms Office, here’s the supply center where you’ll ask for your tradesman package.”
I nod, though my attention slips from the map to him. His bicep is thicker than my thigh. He could kill me with a single strike, surely. And humans are not permitted to carry weapons! He tucks the pencil into his dark hair and hands the paper to me.
I study the map and relax. “Thank you. Truly.” I don’t understand parts of it, but I hope the drops and passageways will become clearer as I walk them. “How . . . will I pay for it? The supplies, I mean.”
“On credit.” He steps away from the wall. “They will know Unach, and you’re obviously human.”
I tilt my head. “Yes . . .”
He hooks his thumb into his outer belt. “Humans aren’t trusted with currency.”
Oh. I suppose that makes sense, if we’re such low-class denizens.
Since he’s being frank, I ask, “And Unach’s name is enough?”
“Unach is Montra.”
There is that word again. “She’s . . . an official?”
Azmar frowns. “Montra is sixth caste. The food handlers and Rooms Office workers will be Deccor at best. That’s third caste.”
I blink, mulling over the information. Thinking of Grodd at the farm walls, the way other trolls steered clear of him and Unach both.
“There are eight castes,” Azmar continues patiently. “Supra, Alpine, Montra, Centra, Intra, Deccor, Nethens, and Pleb. Humans have no caste. If you want to survive, you need to remember that. Stay out of the way.”
That’s the second time he’s given me that warning. Troff said something similar. “And you and your sister are Montra.”
“I am Centra.”
One below. “But you’re the same family . . .” Realizing I’m forgetting myself, I step back and bow my head. “I’m sorry, I should be on my way.”
“Give deference to everyone you meet,” he warns.
I glance at the map.
He points back the way I came. “If you go to the farthest lift, you’ll get up more quickly.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Unlike the others, Azmar nods to my thanks instead of behaving as though I’d spoken a foreign language. The easy gesture emboldens me. I can do this. I’ve gotten through worse, haven’t I?
After memorizing my path, I tuck the map away and venture into the crowd, not bumping into a single troll along the way.
Had I started from Unach and Azmar’s apartment, I would have found the market with more ease. It’s the largest part of Cagmar I’ve seen thus far, with high, cavernous ceilings and wide roads lined with stone shops and stalls. It’s busy, but an orderly sort of busy. As though everyone knows their place and which direction to walk. I try my best not to disrupt any of it.
What’s especially strange in these crowds is how small I am. I came into my height in my teen years and am notably tall for a human woman. And yet even the shortest troll has a hand’s length on me. Only the few, stout children I’ve spotted are shorter.
The stonework and supports surrounding me amplify the noise of the market, making it sound busier than it looks. I check Azmar’s drawing, squinting at his handwriting. If he hadn’t described it to me, I’d think this was written in another language, his writing is so . . . hasty. Was this the Rooms Office or the food handlers?
I walk forward, stepping out of the way of two enormous trolls. A bright-green troll woman hawks strings of beads ahead of me. An adolescent just taller than myself has a basket of some sort of fried food I can’t identify. When he meets my gaze, he snarls. I quicken my step.