I’m glad.
“I need to buy more.”
Sylah, I’m not trading with you anymore. You’re taking too much.
“It’s not for me, it’s for my friends.”
You don’t have any friends.
Hassa’s eyes were hollow. Sylah reached for them, and Hassa batted her away with her wrist.
Promise me, promise me you won’t take any more this week.
“I promise.”
Hassa was visibly torn. Do you have any slabs?
Slabs were the currency of the empire. They were made of whitestone and stamped with the faces of previous wardens, just in case the citizens forgot who was in charge.
Sylah did not have any slabs. She’d lost another apprenticeship the night before, and she’d been drinking and chewing away her troubles all night.
“Trade?” Sylah offered.
Trading was the Ghosting way, more so than their roles as servants, because they chose to trade. Servitude to Embers was thrust upon them. Most Ghostings traded and smuggled goods. Drugs, firerum, materials, kitchen utensils—if you needed it, a Ghosting could get it, and Hassa was one of the best.
Fine. What have you got to trade?Hassa turned to access her stash from her bag, the opening large enough for both of her forearms to rummage in. Sylah stumbled as soon as Hassa let her go. The joba seed juice would thrum through her blood for some time yet.
“I have this.” Sylah pulled out the runelamp from her satchel. Blown from the azure sand of the Farsai Desert, the lamp was a circular glass shell. It was no better than a fufu bowl without the bloodwerk that marked it: dark blood crafted into runes. Once activated, the runelamp created a deep red glow that was used instead of fire torches.
Bloodwerk was what really set Embers apart from the rest of the citizens. Red blood, when written into specific strokes and dashes, had the power to manipulate and move objects. It was the true power that placed Embers above the rest of them.
Sylah, that’s broken.
“Shit, I must have smudged the runes in my bag.” She hadn’t; she’d found it that way. The chain of crimson runes were damaged, rendering the lamp useless. Sylah copied them down anyway; maybe one day she’d figure out how to bloodwerk. She could then sell runelamps by the dozen, making her a lot of slabs.
And more slabs meant more joba seeds.
“Will you still trade it?”
No, I can’t sell this, Sylah. If you want to get the bloodwerk fixed, I will trade for it. Not until then. I hear a new master of blood has moved into the Duster Quarter. Doing penance, I’m sure.
“Oh, come on, Hassa, you know every master of blood charges Dusters double.”
He charges Ghostings triple.
Sylah swore.
Find me something I can trade.
A couple of Ghostings emerged from their ramshackle villa and waved at Hassa. If the beige of their servant uniforms didn’t set them apart, then the gray-brown pallor of their skin did. Ghostings had always seemed like beautiful dolls to Sylah. Dolls whose hands and tongues the empire had severed and then discarded at the bottom of their toy chest.
Hassa signed back to them, then turned to Sylah. I have to go. If I don’t see you at the Descent, I’ll see you at the Maroon later?
Sylah scowled, frustrated that her friend wouldn’t trade with her for joba seeds. She’d have to find another dealer.