“Those who spent childhoods dreaming of following in their mother’s or father’s stead? Forget it – it’s the mines, or the ships, nothing else. Whole mercer houses have collapsed, dissolved and been divided, because all the heirs were sensitives. Pits below, Ripka, some of the more influential houses vacation back in Valathea now, to conceive their children, lest they risk birthing sensitives.
“And so they are prized, yes, but also oppressed. What do you think will happen, when Commodore Throatslitter takes control of Aransa? She has no connection to the miners herself, and she will demand higher production to help secure her position. Her blade at our throats is inevitable.”
Ripka leaned forward, dragged her fingers through her hair.
“What do you expect me to do about it? We’ve outlawed private militias, but some allowance must be made for personal guards. And so she keeps them, dozens of groups of armed men and women. All with different colors on their vests, sure, but all holding out their hands to the same boss. That is why I wanted… I wanted you to try. To show the city that it has other options; that it doesn’t have to bow to brute power. Everyone here respects the miners, there’d be no Aransa without them and so, as the mine master–”
“Hush, girl.”
She clamped her mouth shut with a click, breaking off the rambling flow of words midstream. When had she become so needy? If Galtro didn’t want this, if he feared it would bring him harm, it was not her place to thrust him forward.
“Forgive me.” She stood, back stiff despite the warmth of the hearth beside her. “I did not mean to invalidate your concerns.”
“The safety of the miners is my primary duty.”
And the safety of the entire city is mine. She forced herself to smile, the same tight little expression she used on whining uppercrusts, and held her hand out to him. Galtro eyed it, clearly unsure of the meaning. Ripka remained still as a boulder, arm unwavering, until his cold fingers curled around hers. Cold, like hers. Some chills even the warmest of fires couldn’t shake loose.
“I will see to it that the Hub receives a fresh batch of watchers in the morning. The city has been quiet, we can spare them until this is over.”
“Ripka…” He frowned at her, her transition into stiff formality placing him ill at ease. So be it.
“I will oversee the selection of personnel myself. Now, it is late, and I must see to other matters. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Before he could protest, she dropped his hand and crossed the small sitting room, out into the harsh desert night. The door snicked shut behind her, old hinges moaning their complaints. They hadn’t been oiled in years, she was sure of it. She was also sure Galtro rarely slept in his state-issued home. No surprise, that. He was obviously bonded more deeply to the Hub than she had ever imagined.
Ripka glanced to the sky, trying to estimate the angle of the red face of the moon. How long had she been behind those little-used doors? The red moon’s fatter, silvery sister would not rise until the monsoon season began, but that was creeping ever closer now. She had never been good at guessing the mark with only one moon to go by.
With a sigh she set off down the narrow road, residential windows black all around her. This was the level on which the miners themselves lived, their provided homes rolled into neat little lanes with uniform boxes stuffed with flowering succulents set outside each door.
But theirs were not the only state-issued homes on this level.
Ripka turned, the soft soles of her boots crunching over sandy dirt. Here and there she caught the aroma of a supper long-past lingering by darkened doorways, a sign of those few in this level who preferred to go to their rest later in the evening.
Another choice, stripped from them, just as Galtro had said. Mine work was early work, no exceptions. And so those who preferred the nights suffered, or changed. It was just too dangerous to work the lines by lamplight, and so every daylight hour became precious.
She caught herself gritting her teeth, grinding the back molars until her jaw ached. Pausing, she pulled another lump of barksap from her pocket and popped it into her mouth. It was faintly sweet and resinous, but the taste was of little consequence. She chewed the lump, working it around the back of her mouth. It was better than grinding her teeth to stubs.
At the end of the lane a house slightly larger than the others sat, its squat frame hunkered down with its back to the edge of the level. There were fantastic views from the windows in the back of that house. She’d spent many an evening holding a winecup, gazing out of those windows while Warden Faud regaled her with stories of his mercer days during the Catari war.
Complete tosh, all of it. But it had been interesting. Safe.
A ribbon of thin cloth was wound round the front gate, marking it as a crime scene forbidden to public entrance. They needn’t have bothered. The story of what had become of the old warden was impossible to keep quiet. The whole city knew of Faud’s dreadful end. And the whole city assumed the place haunted. Cursed.
Ripka undid the knots her own fingers had tied, and pushed the gate open. It did not squeal. Faud had been a fastidious man when it came to the upkeep of his property, and he hadn’t been gone that long. Not yet.
The little front garden consisted of labyrinths laid in multi-hued stones, their winding ways punched through here and there by a stubborn succulent. Native gravel crunched under her feet. The door slipped open, the sweep of its arc clearing away a fan of dust. Faint light from the red moon filtered through the windows, casting a sickly glow over dust-smeared furniture. In Aransa, it was never long before the dust returned.
She took two steps into the sitting room and stopped. What was she doing here, anyway? They had scoured the place for any hint of the murderer’s identity and motive. At will she could close her eyes and conjure up the image of Faud’s sitting room, just as it was now, each detail immaculate.
Ripka let her eyes drift over the room, comparing what she saw with what she had committed to memory. A wine amphora tipped over by the couch, its contents long since spilled and sunk into the porous floor beneath the rugs. The dark stain was already moldering, making the air sour and tart. When she had first found Faud she had thought that stain was blood, but, no. There was very little blood for a murder scene.
A few droplets were sprayed across a high-backed chair. Had he been struck while sitting still, the other half of the wine already in his belly, weighing down his mind and limbs? There was no way to be sure, but the warden’s lip had definitely been split. That could have been from the bellows used to force the selium down his throat, though.
She glanced to the side, allowing her gaze to linger on the murder weapon. They’d left it there after a brief examination. There was no sense taking it to a specialist to be examined. It was Faud’s own bellows, kept for breathing fresh life into the fire. There was no way he could have known it would mean the end of him, those accordion wings pumping lighter-than-air gas into his steadily distending belly.
Ripka’s hands clenched at her sides. If the weapon had been brought from elsewhere, then maybe… Click.
“Easy, now.” The voice was an eerie echo of her own. Similar, and yet richer somehow. Deeper, weary. Maybe what she would sound like in ten, twenty years’ time.
She froze, fighting every instinct she’d ever cultivated to keep from diving and rolling to the side. You didn’t live long in the Watch without coming to recognize the well-oiled click of a wristbow being primed. In her mind’s eye a parade of every wristbow she’d ever seen rolled along, each one deadlier than the next. Compact weapons, not much for distance. The bolts were small by necessity, not allowing much tension, which made them hard to kill with.