While much of the City's institutions and public buildings were located under one of the three major domes dominating the center of Sabata, there were several more smaller domes that surrounded these...and two if these domes were known throughout Sabata simply as The Rookeries. Narrow, closed-in, winding streets were stifled by a dense collection of tall, bare buildings made in the most humble style, buildings that most often had two or three levels upon them despite their tiny size. The narrow slits of the dome visible above were frequently broken by boards or planks placed over the ground streets below to ease the traffic of moving bodies, a second level of traffic on the second floor of all buildings and, in some areas, the third as well. Upon entering the twin-domed borough, one was left with the impression that they had just entered a dense maze of tiny houses and a few unlicensed shops instead of a proper community of the working class.
The strong press of bodies all around...as well as above and sometimes below...gave off the powerful odour of humanity tempered only just by the dry, arid airs. The Rookeries seldom experienced a merciful breeze, so the scent lingered upon the air and followed wherever one went within. But there were also the smells of roasting lamb, boiling soups, and fragrant flowers...for while the Rookeries were overcrowded and dense, they were the home to literally thousands of the city's families, families that lived literally door-to-door with their immediate neighbors.
Of course, legend has it that there are buildings in the Rookeries that can be found only by those shown the way. That can't be too far from truth, as no ten paces in the Rookeries can be taken in a straight line. For the casual visitor, a guide is traditionally the custom...and young boys and girls waited at the entrance at all marks of the day to provide just this service for a minor fee.
As this time of day, the Rookeries were not quite the press of sweltering heat they could be. Nor were they particularly safe, Domino supposed, pausing at the foot of one of the cement pillars that ringed the edges of the domes, and considering. However, if there was a better time to seek a gathering of the poor, she would be hard pressed to think of it. Any inn or shelter within these sprawling slums ought to be an ideal place to ask questions.
She had spoken with many people of many backgrounds and many dispositions over her years as travelling charlatan, and only once had she had to resort to fleeing as a tactic. Her tongue was as sharp as her mind, if not sharper. She was not afraid, she told herself silently, feeling the heavier beat of her heart and pretending she did not. I am not afraid.
For a flicker longer Domino paused, leaning against the pillar and looking down the street at nothing, her green eyes distant. Probably, one of the children would offer to be her guide in a matter of moments. She wondered how she would feel about that. In her own ragged childhood, she'd played runner on more than one occasion, the labyrinth of streets and alleyways and aerial paths a playground of adventure well into her teenage years, an obstacle course of shifting directions and secret ways. It had seemed like a kind of magic, then, to be dust-stained master of such organised chaos.
I don't believe my mother thought so, though. She would ask why I would not wear a skirt.
With this thought to encourage her - the idea of her mother's disapproval had for many years brought steel to Domino's spine and bade her do it anyway in times of hesitation - she set her jaw and off into the Rookeries, the yellow-green coin warmly in her palm, the closest she had to a companion.