The Final Strife

By the time Sylah had finished scavenging, the usual joba seed dens were empty, the customers dispersed to the Keep to watch the Descent.

“Clockmaster, what’s the time?”

The clockmaster slumped on his stoop at the streetcorner, a bottle of firerum dripping amber liquid from his limp hand. There was only one clock in Nar-Ruta, and few had even seen it. It stood in the cloisters of the Keep, and as the bell rang at each strike, the first clockmaster would call out the time to the next clockmaster in the chain. Sluggishly, with no urgency, the cry would travel through the Ember Quarter, across the Ruta River, and over to the Duster Quarter, eventually making its way to the Dredge.

So don’t ever expect a Dredge-dweller to be on time.

There was one other place she could try: Maiden Turin’s. She didn’t like dealing with the maiden, but she had an aching hunger between her teeth that couldn’t wait until she next saw Hassa. She bit down on the familiar scars of her cheek, pulling in her already gaunt face. Blood flooded her mouth.

—

Maiden Turin’s villa was the largest in the Dredge. Years ago she had settled her business within walking distance of every tavern and seed dealer in the Dredge.

As soon as Sylah’s knuckles rasped against the wooden door, a Ghosting answered with a smile as manufactured as a rubber sole. Their forearm was looped through the wide handle, the door designed to swing back and forward on oiled hinges for a Ghosting’s ease of use. Sylah recognized them as one of the people who had helped raise Hassa, though she couldn’t remember their name. They were a musawa, neither man nor woman, like the God Anyme. Sylah recollected this Ghosting preferred the pronoun “they,” though some musawa went by “she” or “he.”

They stepped back from the door, letting Sylah enter the maiden house.

From the moment a Ghosting’s hands and tongue were severed, they were assigned a noble household where they would cook, clean, or do whatever else the Embers wanted. But some Ghostings were rejected by their Ember masters, for being lazy or for spying or some other ridiculous accusation, and simply thrown out on the streets to die.

So maiden houses like Turin’s sprang up, welcoming discarded Ghostings with open arms. Embers turned a blind eye—in fact, they were some of Turin’s most devoted clientele. Sylah had often seen their shrouded carriages waiting outside the maiden houses, and she and Hassa frequently made a game of throwing rotting fish through the windows.

“Sylah? Be that you?” Turin wrapped a silk overall across her bare body, her movements as calculated as a desert fox’s. Her braids, woven tightly and precisely, fell to her waist, and her features were as bold as they were round. She jutted her chin at the Ghosting who had answered the door. “Go put on some coffee beans.”

“I’m just w-wondering,” Sylah stammered. Her body began to quiver, a symptom that often followed a night of particularly heavy joba use. There was only one remedy. More joba seeds.

“You’re either in or out, Sylah, no loitering on my doorstep.” Turin had already disappeared into the bowels of her home.

Sylah scratched the scar at the back of her neck and followed.

The living room hadn’t been cleared of the night’s revelry, and the heavy musk of sex still clung to the shadows.

“I assume you’re here about a job? Heard you lost your apprenticeship at the glasskeep?” Turin tossed her braids backward, her silk overall slipping from her shoulder.

“No,” Sylah answered quickly. “I’m sorry, I mean, no thank you.” Working at the glasskeep had been a disaster, which Sylah only endured in order to learn as many bloodwerk runes as possible from the runelamps she had to wash. And even though she was in need of work, she’d rather toil in the fields than work for Turin.

The maiden leaned back in her chair and surveyed Sylah. Her gaze was like a claw dragging along her skin, and Sylah winced.

“We’re closed for the Descent, but I can make an exception for you. You’ve made me enough money in the Ring. What will it be? Tall, small, old, bald?”

The Ghosting came in with the coffee. She used her foot to remove the leather harness from the table and plonked down the tray.

“I’m not here for a…”

“Nightworker?” Turin offered. “Didn’t think this was your type of establishment; you should try Maiden Sefar down riverside.” She pulled out a radish leaf cigar, lit it, and took a drag. “Less…particular, some might say.”

Sylah’s shaking fingers spun in knots on her lap. “Might you have any joba seeds to sell?”

“My, my.” Turin’s eyebrows lifted through the smoke.

“I could trade you this frame.” Her offering looked pitiful next to the silver coffee set.

“That frame’s worth about half a slab.” Turin took a drag, her eyes shriveling to half-moons. “It’s cheap rubber wood.” She exhaled a cloud. “Besides, trading’s not really my thing. I leave that to the rabble.” She gave a pointed look to the Ghosting who was pouring the coffee.

Sylah looked at the map in her bag. Maybe Turin would be interested in that? But then Sylah looked around at the lavish oil paintings that covered the walls. Probably not.

“When are you next fighting in the Ring?”

Sylah hadn’t realized how long the silence had stretched until Turin sliced it with the knife of her words. Sylah closed her satchel and replied, “Next week.”