A man walked down the cobbled street. He was young, that much you could say about him, though when asked how young, you couldn't be sure. He wore a cloak over farmer's clothing, and so very clearly did not belong on the polished avenues,  among the shimmering walls of the city where he now found himself. And you would notice, as well, that he was the only one to beg pardon for bumping into those around him, for indeed, the streets were quite crowded and noisy. Men and women hurried about with baskets of fruit and jugs of wine on their heads, or across their shoulders. Scarves of many colors fluttered from every window and door, and gold and brilliant azul lined the walls against cream and cinnamon stone, with a splash of crimson or turquoise here and there.

The young man, whose farm had burned to the ground earlier that month, looked hungrily after the food that the basket-bearers carried. Many times, a plump, ripe fruit, or a bunch of gleaming grapes spilled from a tipped vessel. The young farmer scooped them up, eating them with relish as he passed through the streets, toward the center of the city. He didn't know what he was looking for, but from the bounty around him, he was sure he could survive, and perhaps eventually make a living in this rich place. He paused at a fountain, overflowing with what turned out to be sugar water. Sweet rock crystals the size of his hand grew at the water's edge, gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight. He saw a young girl trot past, clothed in a beautiful purple dress, with flowers in her hair, pausing to snatch a fist-sized chunk of rock candy, before skipping off into the crowd, taking a bite from the tip of the gleaming rock, before tossing the rest onto the road, where it was quickly shattered by pounding feet.

After he was finished gaping, the farmer boy stepped forward cautiously, grabbing a slightly smaller hunk of rock and breaking it off, bracing himself for a retort from some sort of authority for stealing. Nothing but the babble of the crowd and the pounding of feet met his ears.

So, he continued on up the winding road between pillars of marble and glass and gleaming bronze, munching the crystal, and pocketing fruit for later. Surely here, he would at least never go hungry.

By the time he reached the palace gates, he was in quite good spirits. Then, as he approached the gigantic oaken doors in the outer palace gate, which were inlaid with gold and rubies in a mosaic pattern, he heard the distant strains of music. As he rounded the last corner and came under the shadow of the wall, he saw many people crowded before the gates, dancing. Women in long, brilliantly colored skirts, men in billowing pants with bells on their shoes and vests. Those who were not twirling and gyrating in the center of the square were clapping their hands and stomping their feet along the sidelines. Flowers littered the ground, tumbling from the hair of the female dancers, and from the hands of courting men as they whirled around on the scintillating tile surface of the square. The center fountain was filled with a red liquid, the scent of which wafted through the crowd, flying on the wind of a hundred skirts like butterfly wings. It was full of wine, of a deep, rich red color.

The farmer stared in awe, then glanced up at the wall, over which the music was flowing like a brilliant waterfall. He couldn't see where it came from, and the doors were closed. Curious, he pulled the billowed sleeve of the nearest woman, who was clapping in time with the music, a smile on her face. "Where does the music come from? Who plays it?" He asked, speaking loudly to be heard of the skirrling of bagpipes and the high piping of flutes.

The woman laughed, shrugging carelessly. "No one knows! It comes from the palace every day at this hour, and ends an hour later! It has become tradition for the young men to court for wives at this time, and for anyone who wishes, to join in the dance!" She grabbed the farmer's hands. "Come! Join me!" Her teeth glittered a brilliant white.

Just as the farmer was about to let his feet carry him away into the tune, he felt a small tug on his cloak, in much the same way he had tugged on the woman's shoulder. He looked round, and saw a small, dirty girl, dressed in gray rags, her face stained with fruit juice and wine, making it look as though she wore a mask of gore. He almost drew back, but saw the expression in her eyes, which were a clear, pure gray, like the sky just before dawn. One knew, when looking in her eyes, that she had seen more than most adults, and far, far more than was right.

He knelt, ignoring the fact that the woman had twirled off into the mass without him, and nodded for the girl to speak.

"The music is for those who are to hang." The little girl said, sounding as old as her eyes. At the questioning look from the farmer, she continued. "Every day, three people are executed. One man, one woman, one child. They are hung from the gallows inside this wall, with no remorse, or thought for their pain." Her calm voice belied the intensity of her gaze as the little girl told the increasingly horrified farmer the truth of the city. "It is said that the music is played for one hour as they are made to stand and listen at the gallows. They are told that it is to soothe them into slumber. That it is a sort of farewell, a thank you for their service. But it is a torture." Her voice wavered slightly on the last word. "To listen longingly to something that, for all your life, has only meant good things, but is now sounding the funeral march for you. An early grave, and the funeral held before your eyes." The bitterness in the young one's voice was too much for the young man to bear.

"But WHY?!" He burst out. For being a quiet man, he could be loud when the need arose. The girl shuddered, glaring at him.

"For food."

Those two words made his mouth close with a snap, his face going blank with shock. The girl gave a cynical, condescending smile. "Oh, you thought that all of this lush fruit and bountiful drink came from regular farming, did you? Hah! I can tell you are a farmer, and not from around these lands, either. No, the food here is not grown with mere cow dung. Oh, no no! For the PLEASURE and PROFIT of everyone else," she spat out the words like stones," the crops here are grown with a fertilizer of human flesh."

Denial slowly worked it's way across the young man's face. Before he could open his mouth, however, the girl raised a petite hand. "I know what you are going to say. 'There is no way I could be telling the truth. It's just a story made up by a crazy street urchin.' Well!" She tore at the ragged gray scarf around her neck, the hood of it slipping off to reveal hair like fire. Then, the rest of the stained cloth fell away to reveal a black ring around the child's neck, the skin around it raw and wrinkled in some places, as if it had been stretched in ways it was not supposed to flex. A scar on one side showed where a patch had been completely torn away, reaching all the way up behind her ear and creating a bald spot on the side of her head. Her ear, too, was not all there, the bottom lobe having been ripped off.

Tears welled in the less-young farmer's blue eyes, as he slowly reached out and gripped the girl's shoulders. "I believe you, child," was all he could choke out, as they stared at each other for a moment, still and silent in mourning among the blur of colored cloth and jingling bells and music threading through the air, like a spirit on the desert wind. And to them, it was all silent, save for the tinkling of the blood-red fountain, and the sound of tears striking the earth.