Kitabı oku: «Coldmaker: Those who control Cold hold the power»
Copyright
HarperVoyager an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017
Copyright © Daniel Cohen 2017
Cover design and illustration by
Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Daniel Cohen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008207151
Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008207175
Version: 2018-02-23
Dedication
For my father
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
PART ONE
Chapter One
The roasted heap of rubbish was mine to rule.
Still, I was careful to check the alleyway nooks to make sure it stayed that way. I dragged my feet across the ground, grains of sand scraping beneath my heels, and listened for the rustle of sudden movements. On nights like these, blissfully dark and cool, I was never the only Jadan lurking in the dark.
I forced out a grunt, the kind taskmasters sometimes make before unfolding their whips, but no hidden mouths sucked in worried breaths. I tossed a handful of pebbles into the heavier darkness just to be sure, but the only response was silence.
As far as I knew, I was alone.
Standing above the pile, its bitter stench biting my nose, I was left with a smile so large it accidentally split a blister on my upper lip. However, my mood was too fine to be disturbed by small pain.
Glinting in the starlight, the rubbish sizzled with possibilities. Mostly the heap would consist of inedible grey boilweed leaves, dirtied up from cleaning and scrubbing, but there were always treasures to be found within. And, thanks to my newest invention, the Claw Staff, my recent rummagings were no longer followed by angry slices on my arms, greasy smells, or nasty fluids staining my hands.
A thin sheet of sand still dusted the top layer, meaning I was the first to arrive. Other Jadans would sift through these mounds of boilweed in the hope of finding a nibble of candied fig, or a discarded fruit rind to chew into a hard pulp. Of course, food was always a welcome find, hunger being one of my longest relationships, but I had a deeper itch. Something that my kind shouldn’t have.
Or at least didn’t usually have.
Once satisfied that I was alone, I finally reached under my clothing and undid the twine keeping the Claw Staff pinned tightly against my thigh. I’d done my best to make my invention compact, but it had nonetheless chafed like a restless scorpion during the day’s errands.
‘What are we going to find tonight?’ I whispered to the metal.
The Staff gleamed in the dim starlight. There was no time to linger. Rubbish heaps, especially those behind sweet shops, were popular destinations for Jadans out past curfew, and I wouldn’t be alone for long.
I shook the Staff’s poles out. The final length got stuck, so I swiped my fingers across my forehead. I was usually a bit sweaty on missions like this, so I smeared the moisture against the carved notches, allowing the pieces to slide out easily.
Swinging the Staff upside down, I brought the sounding orb to my ear and flicked the teeth on the opposite end with my fingernail. The orb was actually just a chunk from a cracked bell, but its vibrations helped let me know what the Staff’s teeth found in the rubbish’s belly.
My heart started to flutter thinking about all the sounds waiting for me.
I thrust the invention in deep, and the orb answered with a tense ping. This was an alert I knew well, since glass was my most common find. Yanking the camel-leather strip that ran through the middle of my invention, I closed the teeth and pulled out a long chunk of broken vase.
I greedily ran my tongue over the small glob left on the glass, ignoring the gritty sand. Sweltering heat had turned the honey sour, but it was a departure from old figs at least. I polished the spot to a shine, careful not to cut my tongue on the edges.
Churning the Staff again, the orb made a dull, earthy sound and I pulled up an old box filled with scrapings of gem candy. I dabbed a finger into the tiny crystals and let them dissolve slowly in my cheek, but I kept the rest as a present for Moussa. My friend needed the sugar’s happy tingle more than I did these days.
Next came a piece of hardened sweet bread, a pinch of discoloured almonds, and half a candied fig which I chewed happily until something moved at the edge of the alleyway, catching my attention.
I figured it was another Jadan waiting their turn, so I decided to move on, considering my haul was already better than most nights.
Gathering everything up, I lined the bottom of the boilweed bag that my father had artfully stitched for these purposes. The design was perfectly unassuming. I could hide the bag anywhere I needed to during the day, even with treasures inside, appearing as just another pile of useless grey leaves.
Scrambling to the roof of the nearest shop, I crouched down immediately, the shingles below me still hot to the touch. I shifted my weight back and forth between my fingertips, my knees quickly growing warm. Sucking down the juice from the gem candy, I watched another Jadan attack the rubbish. The boy was younger than me, his knees knobbly and frail. A long piece of boilweed had been slung around his head as a makeshift patch, and I wondered how long ago he’d lost the eye.
Now that I was gone, the boy dived hungrily into the pile, desperation clear in his movements. Thankfully for him, I’d already disposed of a big glass shard near the top.
‘Pssst.’ I cupped my hands around my lips. ‘Pssst.’
He didn’t startle, but neither did he turn around. I wondered if he was half deaf too.
‘Hey,’ I called a little louder, still barely more than a whisper.
He didn’t stop his rifling, rummaging so fast he must have not cared about sharp edges, willing to trade blood for food.
‘Family,’ I called.
He turned around and bared the few teeth he still had left, giving me a feral hiss. In my barracks we all looked out for each other, but I knew it wasn’t like that in every barracks. This boy didn’t seem used to kindness. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the piece of stale sweet bread, tossing it down as a peace offering.
Not waiting for a response, I crossed the rooftops, crawling flat. The first Khat’s Pyramid stood tall on the horizon, its peak cutting deep into the night sky. The monuments of the Capitol Quarter were all impressive, with their precise stonework and decorative flags, but no buildings, not even the other pyramids, came even close to the first Pyramid’s height or splendour.
I didn’t have much time to dawdle, but looking up so high made my heart ache with wonder. Cold was falling to the land beyond the Pyramid as the World Crier let loose from the sky above. Deciding the Crying was worth a pause, I rolled onto my side and gazed into the night sky. Thousands upon thousands of pieces of Cold were shooting from the sky every hour, brushing through the dark. I knew that most of the Cold falling in the Khat’s massive Patches would be small Wisps, but there would be Drafts, Shivers and Chills in there too. I squinted, trying to look for any particularly large streaks, hoping that tonight might be one of those rare times I was lucky enough to see a Frost, the most sacred of all Cold.
I didn’t, but Frosts only fell once every few weeks, so the chances were slim anyway.
In the morning, hundreds of Patch Jadans would scramble through those brown sands, digging up all the Cold for the Nobles whilst taskmasters would watch, their whips at the ready, making sure it was all collected.
I tried to imagine the time before the Great Drought, when Cold was Cried throughout the entire world. When we were young, we were told stories of lands flushed green and alive, where you could walk a hundred feet in any direction and pick fruit as big as your fists. Where the Cold would break on mountain rocks, cooling the air and the boiling Rivers, so that you could swim, and drink straight from the current. And every city had bountiful Cry Patches, their gardens swollen and lush.
Now Cold only fell for the Nobles here in Paphos.
Everyone else was unworthy.
I sighed, knowing it wasn’t good to dwell on a past I couldn’t even remember. Eight hundred years later and the world was lucky that Cold still fell at all.
I rolled back over, the hard callouses on my palms making it easy for me to shuffle quickly and quietly without tearing my skin. Shadows flitted silently on the nearby rooftops, crawling in a similar manner. Some figures chanced moving at a crouch, their knees hugging their shoulders, but taskmasters knew to look up to the roofs. Keeping flat was my best chance of survival.
Most Jadans huddled around the Butcher’s Quarter, hoping to gnaw on the piles of old lizard bones, but I never went pilfering over in that part of town. The ones that sought to lord over the old meat had traded in mercy long ago, and rancid scrap wasn’t worth a brick lodged in the back of the head.
I made my way towards the Sculptor’s Quarter, knowing these alleyways wouldn’t be so crowded. A Sculptor’s leavings were never very satisfying for a hungry Jadan, but I needed materials for the board game Matty and I were creating, and every once in a while I’d find a little ceramic carving. My young friend had the rules just about finished, but we needed a few more pieces to round out both sides of play.
The Sculptor buildings were works of art themselves, with statues of famous Khats of the past chiselled into their stone walls. A Jadan was supposed to drop to their knees if they looked directly at an image of the Khat, but since I was already crawling, I decided there was no need.
The pile of rubbish closest to the back door of Piona’s Moulds looked most promising, so I climbed down to the alley, giving my invention a stern look. ‘Find me something good,’ I whispered.
It obliged.
A ping … a barely cracked chisel.
A harsh scraping … three sheets of sandpaper, still a bit rough.
A thrum … a small chunk of marble that I think might have once been a Khat’s nose, with powerful, flaring nostrils. The chunk was a bit big as it was, but I figured I could shape it up and let Matty decide its fate in the game.
By the time I’d reached the Ancient Quarter my knees were bruised, but my bag had a satisfying heft.
Only three Ancient Shops existed, large domes of white limestone, with curved doors locked by chain upon chain. These shops were only ever frequented by the Highest of Nobles, as the domes contained relics from before the Great Drought, sold for extraordinary sums.
Legend had it that their shelves were stocked with metal machines which moved on their own, hourglasses which told time without sand, and lanterns which needed no fire to survive. The walls were without windows, and every time I passed by I wished I could invent something which could help me hear through stone.
My scuttling was halted at the sound of laughter coming from below.
‘So I told my father,’ a young Noble slurred, popping a Wisp into his wineskin. He downed a swig, red liquid sloshing down the front of his fine silk shirt. ‘I have no idea where the Chill went! Must be one of the new Jadans. I believe you’ve purchased a bad batch of slaves at auction, dear man.’ He held up a fat bejewelled ring for his friend to see. ‘Yes. Definitely stolen by one of the slaves. Oops.’
Grinding my teeth, I moved on.
The walls of the Garden Quarter came into view, fifty feet high and smooth as glass. The place could house three of my barracks, and I could only imagine the paradise I’d see if I could somehow catapult myself over their walls. There would be more figs than we would be allowed in a lifetime, not to mention the grand things we never got to eat, like orangefruit, plump grapes, baobab fruit, and Khatmelons.
Carrying on, I passed the row of Imbiberies. Most Noble festivities were held in this Quarter, constituted of lively shops only open at night, serving mead and music. I paused to listen to the melodies escaping from the windows, but I was spurred onward by the crack of a taskmaster’s whip, followed by a high-pitched pleading.
A few more stubbed fingers later, I finally reached my favourite spot, landing softly on my feet. The Smith Quarter were situated on the far west side of the city, removed so the loud bangs didn’t bother anyone. The back alleys were studded with anvils, as the kiln fires made the buildings too hot to work in all day. The waste ditches were always plentiful, filled with oily mounds of boilweed waiting to bestow gifts.
I manoeuvred the Staff into the heart of the biggest heap, my chest tingling with anticipation. After some heavy sifting, the sounding orb made a series of happy pings.
An old hammerhead, bent and rusty.
A chunk of bendy tin.
Half a dagger hilt.
Five links of chain, still attached.
A rusty hinge.
My bag expanded and my chest filled with the one good warmth this world can offer. I wanted to kiss my invention, but fearing what my cracked lips might taste, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the World Crier instead.
Even though the Khat’s Gospels assured us his Eyes were closed to Jadankind, I was thankful all the same. The Crier above never plagued me for being out after curfew, and for this I was always grateful.
I thrust the Staff in one last time, all the way up to my knuckles, my wrist straining to pull it through the pile. The exhausted muscles in my arm groaned until at last the orb gave a shout, long and high.
I frowned, not recognizing the sound.
It took a few pulls for the teeth to clamp around the mystery object, and with careful speed, up came a miracle.
Or a disaster.
Breath caught in my throat, and my knees went weak as I picked up the Shiver with shaky hands.
It was more Cold than I was rationed in a month.
My brow prickled with sweat. I often came into contact with Shivers, but never like this. Never one that I could keep for myself. Smuggling bits and pieces home was one thing, but if anyone found a Shiver in my possession, my body would be the first to be hurled by the dead-carts into the dunes.
I brought the beautiful round of Cold closer to my face, entranced by its lovely sheen.
A part of me knew I might get away with keeping it. I could shave off pieces and share them with the rest of the Jadans in my barracks. I could tinker with it for hours.
Maybe even use it for my Idea.
My fingers trembled as I weighed my options. This was a once in a lifetime find. Once in a hundred lifetimes. My vision went light, my body swaying beneath me as my balance faltered. Taskmasters were out there, and I had to decide quickly.
My forehead beaded with more of my namesake sweat, my heart throbbing with the terrible decision.
I tossed the Shiver back on the pile, seething with frustration.
I’d heard enough warnings throughout my life about us Jadans trying to keep any Cold for ourselves. Often these stories ended in curses that melted our eyes, and angry spirits rising up from the deepest cracks of the Great Divide to carry us back into the darkness. I had never seen anything like this happen in real life, but I didn’t want to chance it. The World Crier had taken Cold away from Jadankind for a reason, and who were we to go against eight hundred years of punishment?
I turned away from the Shiver to avoid any further temptation, when, for the second time that evening, my heart nearly stopped.
A figure was watching me from the rooftops. Her braided hair framed a Jadan face hardened by thought, and I could tell she had been watching me for some time, her focus directed on my Claw Staff rather than on the Shiver.
I froze, guilty about my temptation. But before I could say anything, she moved, darting off into the night.
I climbed back to the nearest ledge to get another glimpse of her. But what I saw next made my jaw drop even more than finding the Cold.
The girl was running, proud, high, and fast, her back completely straight for all the taskmasters in Paphos to see.
Jadans didn’t run like that, ever. We were inferior, and we were supposed to show it at all times. Her posture was an outright scandal, and my back ached just watching her move.
By the time I caught my footing she was half a dozen rooftops away, her spine as straight and rigid as a plank of wood. Surely she’d be spotted. Surely this would be her last night racing along the rooftops. I sighed, praying that her death might be quick.
I crouched down once again and started crawling home. I’d gathered enough materials for the night anyway.
I tiptoed around Gramble’s guardhouse, making sure the sound of crunching sand under my toes was minimal. My Barracksmaster turned a blind eye to my night runs, but that was all he could do. If he caught me in the act, the Khat’s law required punishment for both of us.
I inched towards the loose panel in the wall of my barracks. Taking one last look up at the sky, my eyes searched for Sister Gale within the flurry of stars. She was bright and shining, blowing tonight’s air cooler than most nights, and I gave Her a quick nod of thanks.
The panel into my barracks came away easily, and I slipped inside mine and my father’s private room. The cracks in the ceiling let in just enough starlight for me to make my way to bed.
Abb, my father, was already lying on top of his blanket, dreaming. I hovered over him for a moment, noting the terrible new angle in his nose. The side of his face was puffy, and in the morning, I knew his eyes would be ringed in crusty purple bruises.
Most nights when I chanced sneaking into the heart of Paphos, I’d come home to find him waiting up for me, ready to eagerly appraise each new piece of treasure and ask what I planned to use it for. I couldn’t wait for the morning, as I was dying to tell him about both Shiver and the girl.
I reached out and placed the almonds I’d found beside his bed. Then, I reached into my bag to sort through my treasure. My new metal links rattled as I filed them away, but Abb didn’t stir. He must have had a long shift over at the Pyramid.
Having tidied my treasures into their respective holes in the ground, I settled onto my blanket and closed my eyes. My remaining few hours were spent dreaming of Cold.
Chapter Two
I awoke with a start to my father hovering over me, smiling as he crunched the almonds.
‘You didn’t wake me,’ he said reproachfully, wincing as he chewed.
I sat up, blinking away the images of long hair and an unseemly posture. I stretched from side to side as I drank in the morning light which filtered through the slats in the roof. I could already tell the Sun wouldn’t be taking it easy on us today. The air inside the room was already stifling, thick with the sky’s hatred.
‘You were asleep,’ I said.
‘Well, that happens every night,’ replied Abb, swallowing the last almond. ‘Not a good excuse.’
I raised an eyebrow. As I’d guessed, the bruises now marked his face. ‘Looked like you needed it.’
He ignored my comment, changing the subject instead. ‘So, what did you find?’ he asked, poking me gently in the chest.
The memory of the Shiver shot back into my mind. ‘I—’
He held up a hand. ‘On second thoughts, I believe I can figure it out by myself.’
‘You’re not going to guess—’
He held a finger up to his lips, a playful look in his eyes. ‘I said I can figure it out. You certainly didn’t learn your listening skills from me, Little Builder.’
The name was one of my father’s continuous jokes, referring both to my inventing and the fact that I still had many years to go before I was assigned to become a Builder like himself. I liked it a lot better than my other nickname.
I shrugged, blinking the sleep away from my mind. My body pleaded for more, but there was nothing I could do until later. Thinking about my new finds, I assured myself the sluggishness was a worthy price.
Abb walked over to my tinker-wall, bearing down upon the stores of materials. I’d dug different ditches for each type, and his fingers swept along the space above the piles.
‘Ah, a new chisel,’ he remarked, pointing to the tool pile. ‘Good find.’
I nodded, my mouth dry and dusty. I tried to dredge up the sweet taste of candy dust, but crawling around all night had given thirst control over my cheeks. I was eager for the bells to ring so we could start our rations, as my head was throbbing from lack of water.
‘Lusty metal,’ Abb said humorously, staring down at the chains. ‘One day you’ll be old enough to understand that joke.’
‘Links,’ I corrected, rolling my eyes. ‘And I understand it just fine.’
He winked, giving me a knowing smile before bending over the pile of jars, fingers snatching something off the top. ‘Where’d you get this?’
He turned around, something foreign in his grip.
At first glance I didn’t recognize what he was holding up. The golden-hued vial was unblemished, and I didn’t remember picking up anything like it. The jars in my stash were usually empty and broken, and I turned the decent ones into medicine vials for Abb. This one, however, looked as if it belonged on the display shelves of an apothecary. The sleep was still thick in my brain and I couldn’t come up with an answer.
Abb came closer, holding it out to me. ‘So, what is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I squinted, trying to make out the greenish material inside.
Abb’s face broke into a coy smile.
‘Well, it looks like the colour of a birthday present.’ He chuckled, smacking the vial into my palm. ‘Or part of one at least.’
My mouth gaped as I held the vial out to a sunbeam, illuminating its contents. The inside gloop was viscous and slick.
‘This is for me?’ I asked, stunned. I shook the small vial, the jelly wiggling inside. ‘Is this groan salve?’
‘It is indeed,’ he said, with a slight puff of his chest. ‘Mixed carefully with a father’s pride.’
‘How’d you get it?’
‘If you must know the truth.’ He shrugged, going quiet for a moment. ‘It fell from the sky, specifically for you.’
I shook my head, somewhat serious. ‘You can get into trouble for lies like that.’
‘I’ve lived long enough for trouble and I to have grown a mutual respect,’ Abb replied simply, scratching his fingernails across the frizz on my head. ‘But if you’re worried, better use it up quick.’
I pushed his hand away, smiling, and took the cap off the salve. It smelled like a taskmaster’s feet, but I knew it was the best remedy for an unforgiving sting. I’d only ever been lucky enough to find a nip or two before, never a full bottle.
Abb then reached into the top crate of my invention-wall, retrieving one of my crank-fans. It was still a work in progress, since Nobles never threw away good blades, but I’d managed to file down some sturdy awning as a decent substitute.
Abb held the fan in front of his face and turned the lever, spinning air across his cheeks. The little thing gave a garbled whirr, its bearings rusty, but his face lit with delight. Once he’d finished with it, he gave it an appraising nod, as if all was right in the world.
Harsh light now tunnelled through the roof, brighter and more invasive. I could feel the hungry morning heat tasting its first bites of my face. I slapped my cheek, trying to wake myself up a bit.
‘The sky had something else for you, Little Builder,’ Abb said after a few moments, putting the crank-fan back in its crate.
‘This groan salve is already too much,’ I said. Sometimes Abb’s thoughtfulness overwhelmed me, his gentle heart highlighting the brutality of the previous father to whom I’d been assigned. ‘And would you stop saying the sky had things for me?’
Abb considered the ceiling, stepping out of a strong spear of light. He reached into his pocket and retrieved some things that made me reconsider everything that had happened the night before.
With shaking hands, he offered me three small, gleaming Wisps. I didn’t miss the pleased twitch in his lips as I took them.
My heart raced looking at the three pieces of Cold. I knew Abb was okay with me breaking a few barracks’ rules like sneaking out in the night, and reclaiming rubbish, but never had he encouraged me to break a holy law.
‘We can’t have our own Cold,’ I said, stunned. ‘You’ve said so yourself.’
He nodded, bobbing his head up and down. ‘Perhaps that was true.’
Three tiny Wisps paled in comparison to the might of a Shiver, but it was illegal for a Jadan to keep even the smallest measure of Cold.
‘What do you mean?’
Abb dropped the Wisps in my lap, so I had no choice but to take them. ‘In a way, truth ages, just like we do. You aren’t the same as you were a year ago, nor will you be the same on your next birthday. I think you’re ready for some new truth. So take the Cold. Use the Wisps, or hide them.’ He put a hand on my cheek. ‘Who will know?’
I froze up at his words. How could my father, the best Jadan I’d ever known, encourage such blasphemy?
‘But what about the World Crier?’ I replied, a lump in my throat. ‘He’ll know.’
Abb gave an understanding nod. ‘He let the Cold travel this far.’
‘So?’
Abb sucked his cheek, seemingly testing a bruise from the inside. From the look on his face it was quite painful. ‘So, there are the Noble laws, and there are the Crier laws. They’re not always one and the same.’
I paused, feeling myself getting flustered. This wasn’t a subject we’d ever broached, and I was uncomfortable with his disorienting words. ‘But the Khat …’
‘They’re not always the same, Micah.’ He stretched his fingers, striped with sizzling ribbons of light. ‘But this might be a conversation for another time. Let’s leave it there for now.’
‘Thank you,’ I said in a thin voice, petrified that the Crier might punish me for having the Wisps. But then again, Abb had no signs of plague, or evidence that demons had tried to rip out his eyes, and he’d have been in possession of the Cold for at least a night.
‘Ah, but you can’t thank me yet.’ He smiled. ‘That’s not the last of your gifts.’
‘No more,’ I said, taking shallow breaths just in case. ‘I’m going to have a hard time using all of the others.’
Abb’s face suddenly turned serious. He glanced at the thick boilweed curtain that served as a door, even though I’d heard nothing from the other side.
‘This is not a gift to use, Micah,’ he said, his voice suddenly heavy with emotion. ‘But one for you to remember. Promise me.’
I nodded, a bit afraid of this serious turn in him. A small smirk or tiny laugh usually hovered somewhere about his lips, but right now his face was iron.
Abb placed his fingers on my sweat-riddled forehead. His quiet voice rose and fell in a beautiful lilt I’d never heard before, one which sucked the silence out of the room and transformed it into something more profound, beyond language. My father had a good singing voice, but this felt different from the times he’d forced out the ‘Khat’s Anthem’ or ‘Ode to the Patch’. The devastatingly beautiful sounds coming from his lips left my head reeling.
Then the words stopped almost as swiftly as they’d begun.
‘Again,’ he said in a stern voice, ‘listen.’
I nodded, trying to ready my ears this time.
He repeated the lovely melody, and I caught every last syllable, filing them away like the most precious of my findings.
—Shemma hares lahyim criyah Meshua ris yim slochim—
‘Did you get it?’ he asked, voice soft.
I nodded, concentrating so hard that my ears rang.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘However would I know a thing like that?’ he asked, removing his fingers and backing away, a bit of the trademark humour returning to his eyes. ‘I don’t speak Ancient Jadan. Now get out of here and find your friends.’ He attempted a broad smile, but winced, the sunlight claiming the bruises on his face. ‘They’re probably eager to give you their own birthday gifts.’
Matty smirked, hands gently slapping his knees in anticipation. ‘What’cha get me?’
The three of us huddled together in a corner of the common chamber, away from the shabby grey flaps that divided the family sleeping areas. Sitting on the sandy floor, our legs were crossed and knees touched so we’d take up the least amount of space.
‘What did I get you?’ I asked. ‘I never thought you would be so greedy.’
Moussa scowled for the group, but aimed a private wink my way. ‘Grit in your figs, Matty. It’s Micah’s birthday. You should just be glad that he got home safe.’
Matty’s face turned bashful. ‘Spout always gets me something when he goes out. Always.’
‘You have got to stop calling him that.’ Moussa let out a pained sigh. ‘Don’t you know that no one calls him that any more?’
I shrugged. In truth, most Jadans in our barracks – and indeed in the streets – still called me Spout, a nickname I’d come to terms with a long time ago. It wasn’t just enough that my loose forehead wasted more water than other Jadans my age, they had to remind me of the fact.
‘I don’t mind “Spout”,’ I said. ‘As long as Matty doesn’t mind me sweating on any future gifts.’
Matty lowered his head, eyes going to his lap where his hand was stroking the small feather that I’d fashioned him from metal and fabric. I don’t know why Matty kept up this fascination. Clearly the creatures were extinct, no possible way they could survive in the harsh conditions after the Great Drought.
‘Did’ja see any birds?’ Matty asked, his tone still hopeful, even after all this time.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Moussa said, giving Matty’s ear a playful flick. ‘Why would a creature live in the sky and choose to be close to the Sun? You should know it would crisp up after a few flaps.’
I rehearsed what would surely be Matty’s next words, holding back my smirk. My small yet vibrant friend said the same thing every time: You know, Cold lives up—
‘Y’know,’ Matty said right on cue, guarding the side of his head against another flick. ‘Cold lives up in the sky too. So if there was any birds left, they’d prolly come out at night.’
‘No sign of birds yet,’ I said, cutting off whatever cutting remark Moussa was preparing. ‘But I promise if I see one, I’ll lure it back for you.’
‘Y’know that they sing, don’cha, Moussa?’ Matty said, swiping the feather through a small pillar of light that was sneaking through the ceiling. ‘You could prolly lure one down, if you tried hard enough.’
I looked over at Moussa, hoping the talk of music might cheer him up a little, but he said nothing, his expression remaining sombre. Moussa’s Patch birthday was nearing, and lately he hadn’t been in the singing mood, which was too bad, as his voice was arguably the best in the barracks. On top of that, Sarra and Joon had taken to spending their free hours in one of the empty boilweed divisions, which I imagine didn’t help Moussa feel any less forlorn.
Matty tucked the metal feather behind his ear, licking his dry lips. My small friend looked almost as ready for water as me. ‘One day you’re both gonna see I’m right. I know it.’
‘Doubtful,’ Moussa said under his breath.
‘However, I do have gifts.’ I leaned forward conspiratorially, trying to brighten the mood. ‘And news.’
Matty stuck out his palm, his smile practically spanning the common area.
I produced the marble nose chunk. ‘For our game. I figured you’d know what to do with it.’
Matty wiggled his eyebrows in delight, taking the carving and holding it up to his face. ‘Howsit look?’
‘A bit big,’ Moussa said with a contemplative look. ‘But you should know, most things are big compared to you.’
Matty stuck out his tongue. ‘Just wait some years. When I’m turning fifteen like Spout I’m going to rest my elbow on your head all the time.’
Moussa craned his neck to full height. ‘We’ll see about that.’
I then pulled out the box of gem candy remains and laid it on the hard sand at Moussa’s feet, opening the lid. ‘For you.’
‘It’s not my birthday yet – thank the Crier,’ Moussa replied, shaking his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gears, nearly free of rust, and with most of their teeth. ‘For you.’
My eyes went wide with shock. ‘Where? How did you … Thank you. They’re perfect.’
‘They’re not much.’
I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Once I need them, they’ll be everything. Tinkering is only fun when you have things to tinker with.’
Matty’s face dropped, guilt flooding his face, and he tried to hand the Khat nose back to me. ‘For you?’
I laughed. ‘Just figure out a place for it in the game. That’s good enough for me. It’s about time we finished that thing.’
‘I should of got’cha something,’ Matty groaned.
‘Really, I don’t need anything else.’
Keeping his head slumped, Matty reached out his arm and tilted his hand backwards, offering up his ‘calm spot’. I touched my thumb to the splotchy birthmark on his wrist, which for some reason comforted my young friend whenever he felt like he’d done something wrong.
‘Family,’ Matty said.
‘Family,’ I repeated, letting go and gesturing both of them closer. ‘So last night I was in the Smith Quarter and found—’
A foot dug into the sand near my knee, spraying up a light coating into our faces. Then a gravelly voice said: ‘They put it in the ground!’
I sat back to look into the loopy face of Old Man Gum, grinning at us through a mouth full of black gaps. As he was the oldest Jadan in our barracks, with skin dark as soot, we had to show him respect, even though he never made much sense.
‘Morning, Zeti Gum,’ Matty said, offering the youthful term of respect.
Gum bent down and patted us all on the head, then, without another word, he wandered back to his private space, tucked aside the boilweed curtain, and slumped back to his ratty blanket. There was enough space to watch him land directly on his face and tap the ground, listening for a response.
Matty picked up the metal feather Gum had accidentally knocked from his ear, and slipped it in his pocket.
‘Anyway,’ I said with a smile, ‘last night, when I was in the Smith Quarter, I found a full Shiver in the boilweed.’
Matty’s eyes went wide. ‘Did’ja touch it?’
I gave a slow nod, feeling a lump in my throat.
Matty angled his head to look at my palms. ‘Did’ja hands burn up?’
I splayed them wide, calloused yet unharmed. ‘Nothing.’
Moussa looked at me, astounded. ‘Where is it now? You didn’t try to keep it, did you?’
From the concern in his voice, I thought it best not to mention the Wisps that Abb had given me. My stomach churned at even the thought of betraying the Crier. It was probably best to bury the Wisps and never speak of them again.
‘It’s still there,’ I said, keeping my voice down. I looked around the barracks to see if anyone could overhear us. ‘I think so at least. I don’t know for sure, because when I put it back there was a girl watching me.’
Matty’s face broke into a coy smirk. ‘A girrrl …?’
I reached across and flicked him on the arm. ‘Listen. There was something different about her. She was—’
‘Spout.’ The desperate voice came from over my shoulder.
I turned around and found sweet Mother Bev hunched over, hands on her knees, panting slightly. ‘Can I use a crank-fan, darling?’
‘Of course, you never have to ask.’ I went to get up, but she put a gnarled hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m still able,’ she said with a cracked voice, shuffling off. ‘Blessings, child. May fifteen be Colder than fourteen.’
I watched her walk away. I hated it when she said things like that, as blessings were supposed to be saved for the Khat and Crier only.
When I looked back, Moussa was dabbing his finger in the gem candy dust. He gave me a sheepish look. ‘Thanks, Micah.’
‘Don’t mention it. So this girl,’ I held my palm up like a blade, trying to approximate her posture, ‘she was running on the rooftops like this.’
Matty frowned. ‘Smacking the wind?’
I shook my head with a chuckle. ‘No, her back. She ran with her back completely straight. A Jadan, running like that. Crazy, right?’
Moussa paused and then gave a long shrug. A few boilweed flaps began rustling behind us, bodies in motion, so he lowered his voice. ‘Here’s the thing. That’s weird, I suppose. But she was already out, breaking one rule. What would stop her from breaking two?’
I hadn’t thought of it like that, but something about the memory still bothered me. We weren’t supposed to move like that, so tall and proud, and it almost felt like a worse transgression than hiding Wisps.
I slipped the gears into the candy box and placed it against the wall. From the amount of light basting the roof, I knew the chimes would be ringing soon, and we needed to get ready.
‘Spout,’ a deep voice boomed.
I turned back and found Slab Hagan looming over our group, his meaty body blocking at least five beams of sunlight from reaching the floor. One of my scorpion traps dangled in his hands, the face of the box shut and sealed.
‘Morning, Hagan,’ I said.
‘I’ll eat it when you done?’ Slab Hagan asked, his eyes gleaming with hunger. I never understood how he maintained such a frame on a Jadan diet, even supplemented by the occasional insect.
‘Please,’ he added in a gruff voice.
I made sure the springs of the trap were tight so the scorpion wouldn’t escape, and put it aside for later extraction. ‘Of course. It’s yours.’
Slab Hagan gave something of a thankful bow, and hulked away to his place near the main doors. Jadanmaster Gramble offered double rations of figs and a thick slice of bread to whoever was first in their respective lines, and at this point the Builders just let Slab Hagan have the honour.
The morning chimes rang out and everyone scrambled from their boilweed divisions into the common area, donning dirty uniforms and breathing heavily. The air in the chamber was already thick with the Sun’s heat, and was only getting hotter. The four distinct lines settled together, stretching from wall to wall of the main chamber: Patch, Builder, Street, and Domestic. I landed near the end of my line, the Street Jadans, tucked between Moussa and Matty.
The chimes were all still ringing with ease, and my head swivelled upward, admiring my handiwork of pulleys and cables. Other Barracksmasters used whips and chains, and in severe cases, sprinkles of acid to wake up their Jadans, but Gramble was kind, and he deserved a kind system for rousing us. It had only taken a few days for me to tinker my bells idea into reality – Gramble had access to all the materials he wanted – and I’d received triple rations for a week. Now, to get the system to sound, all our Barracksmaster had to do was pull a lever beneath the sill of his guardhouse window.
I pressed a finger to my hard and scabby lips, ready for water. Looking around the lines, I caught many of my family looking over to me, knowing today was the day I turned fifteen. I got a deranged wave from Old Man Gum, a round of smiles from most of the Domestic line, a playful flash of ten fingers and then five from Avram, and a dozen other little gestures of love.
Gramble’s key flitted inside the lock of the main doors, the tink of metal replacing all the conversations in our rows. The doors flung open and our ruling Noble waddled in, dragging the rations cart behind him. Our tired faces cracked with excitement at the sight of the sloshing buckets. Of course, the relief would be short-lived, as the daylight behind him was already baring fangs.
Gramble unhooked the Closed Eye from the side of the rations cart, spinning the pole so the symbol would stand above us. The copper representation of the Crier’s Eye had its lid sealed shut to our kind, just as the Gospels dictated. It was a reminder of the sins of past Jadans, which the Crier could never forgive.
The Patch Jadans were first for rations, since they had the longest distance to cover and the hardest days ahead. At eighteen, life became excruciating for the young Jadan men, and many of their bodies looked frail from overuse, skin tanned black as shadow. The Sun showed no mercy to those tasked to work in the deep sands, collecting all the Khat’s new-fallen Cold. At the front of the Patch line, Joon kneeled before the Closed Eye, tucked in his chin, and said in a clear voice: ‘Unworthy.’
Gramble nodded, offering in return a cup of water with a single Wisp, and a double ration of figs. The rest of the line of Patch Jadans followed suit, kneeling and offering their regrets to the Eye before passing through the door to face the brutal light of the day.
If a Patch Jadan survived for five years in the blistering conditions, they became a Builder, repairing streets and walls and erecting monuments to the Khat. The Builders were next for rations, Slab Hagan leading the group. He kneeled, but was still almost as tall as Gramble.
‘Unworthy,’ his large mouth boomed.
The cooped-up air in the main chamber began to grow stifling, Sun making its impatience known. Soon it would be warmer inside the barracks than outside, which was saying something.
Abb successfully roused both his patients still stuck in their boilweed divisions – a silent wave of relief sweeping the lines as Dabria coughed her way to her feet – and my father filed in behind the rest of the Builders, giving me a wink before kneeling for rations himself and sweeping through the main doors.
Once the Builders had all left, the Street Jadans were next.
Ours was the largest group, Street Jadans compromised of both boys and girls aged ten to eighteen, and it took a little while before I reached the rations cart. Moussa looked back and gave me a little nod just as he passed through the doors.
I kneeled, dropping hard against the sand. I felt as if I should say the word louder than usual today considering the three Wisps hidden under my blanket. ‘Unworthy!’
Gramble nodded, beckoning me to stand.
‘Spout,’ he said, the nickname always tilting his bushy eyebrows with amusement.
‘Sir.’ I eyed the bucket of water longingly. A night of scavenging always left me famished.
Gramble scooped up a sizable portion of water and then passed it my way. But before I could take it in my shaking hands, he snatched it back, a glib smile on his face.
Then he reached into his pocket and held up a Wisp, dancing it across my eyes.
‘Sir, I—’
He dropped the extra Wisp into the cup and pressed it against my chest. ‘Congratulations on making it to fifteen, boy.’
I stood there, shocked at my good luck. I felt the Closed Eye glaring at me from behind its lid, knowing my guilty secret.
‘Come on now, Spout, drink up!’ ordered Gramble. ‘The Domestics are still waiting their turn!’
I trembled as I lifted the water to my lips, the cool liquid splashing across my blisters and cuts, lighting up my tongue with pure ecstasy. After a night of swimming the rooftops, the water tasted of pure and complete decadence. My stomach wasn’t prepared for the splash of Cold, clenching up tightly at first until it relaxed and enjoyed the gift.
Gramble gave me a large handful of figs and ushered me through the doors, the sunlight smacking me in the face like a fist. However, as hot as the sky was, no pox struck me down, and no spirits from the Great Divide came to drag me under the sands to my death. I could only assume that since I hadn’t actually asked for the three Wisps, the Crier might spare me the wrath.
I moved fast, needing to reach my corner before the morning bell tolled. Jadanmaster Geb was lenient on lateness, but plenty of taskmasters would be waiting in the shadows to make up for this tolerance, hoping to catch their own Jadan and have some fun at our expense.
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