The Final Strife

—

Sylah had drunk a bottle of firerum. Maybe two. She wasn’t sure, but somehow she had another bottle in her hand. It sloshed as she weaved through the streets. The tidewind had done its work, casting the world in blue dust.

“Dusters! Time to clean!” Her bellows bounced around the empty quarter. “Get up!” She choked on her joba seed and swallowed it. Her coughing woke the resident of a nearby villa. Their tidewind shutter opened.

“Aho, get your ass out of the Duster Quarter. Go, go, you, get down to the Dredge.”

“I don’t belong here nor there, you won’t believe where I do belong. But that’s my secret.” She choked on another joba seed. How many did she have in her mouth? She stuck her finger in just to check. By the time she had counted them—four—the angry Duster had gone.

The Dredge seemed as good a destination as any; the Maroon would have the shutters down on the outside, but the firerum flowing on the inside, which was exactly what Sylah needed, as she had somehow managed to pick up an empty bottle of firerum. It may have been full when she picked it up, she wasn’t sure.

The Maroon was still busy from the day’s revelry, with more patrons than usual sipping firerum in the runelight. A group of Ghostings peddled their goods in the corner.

“Does no one sleep in this city?” she mumbled as she took a seat at the bar. The revelations of the day weighed on her shoulders, and she slumped down with a sigh.

The Sandstorm, Jond, the Ring, and to top it all off I’m the fucking daughter of the Warden of Strength.

“I need to forget the day, someone get me a bottle of firerum,” she shouted at the bar staff, slamming down money she had stolen from Lio’s purse. The slabs were scooped up and replaced with a bottle of amber firerum.

Sylah sipped from a dirty shot glass and wondered if they drank from golden goblets in the Keep. They wouldn’t drink firerum there. Firerum was a drink for Dusters and Ghostings. Brewed from the sugarcane in Jin-Sukar and smuggled in by the Warden of Crime, it was a plantation drink that had become popular among the lower classes.

If she squinted hard enough, the finger smudge on the lip of the glass looked embossed. If she closed her eyes completely, it turned into an emblem of the guild of strength. She was born for a life dipped in gold, not drenched in blood. She knew where she needed to go.

Sylah stood up, and the floor came up to meet her.

When she blinked again, Hassa was above her.

How many joba seeds have you had?

Sylah let three seeds dribble out of her mouth onto the floor. “Two?”

Get up, I’ll help you home.

“Okay, my home is across the river, in a big bed with Ghosting servants and my own cook.”

Hassa raised an eyebrow. Fine, let’s go there then.

—

Hassa was tired. She hadn’t slept for over a day. The elders would expect her to be back at work at dawn. She needed the last few strikes of the night for sleep, not dragging Sylah through the streets. She thought it was over once the man in the villa had found Sylah. But while Hassa was completing her final task of the night, there Sylah was, drinking in the Maroon.

Hassa had been trying to lead Sylah toward the Duster Quarter for some time. She had been quizzing Hassa incessantly about her job in the Keep. Like many Ghostings, Hassa had Ember masters. The kente sash around her waist was patterned in the wardens’ colors identifying her as a servant of the wardens.

What type of wine did they drink? How many Ghostings served the wardens? What did they eat for breakfast? The questions slurred together, and half the time Hassa hadn’t finished signing before Sylah went on to the next one.

Sylah, stop.Hassa came to a halt and pulled on Sylah’s arm to swing her around. She stumbled and would have fallen if Hassa hadn’t caught her.

“What did you do that for?”

Be quiet. There’s a patrol up ahead. I need you to act sober for five minutes while they pass us.

Sylah followed Hassa’s gaze. The purple blazers moved as one, their distinctive thud, thud, thud on the tarmac of the Duster Quarter. Hassa felt the air shift as they drew closer.

Sylah was swinging her head between the platoon and the oppressive black structure of the Tongue.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not going that way.”

It is late, you need to go to sleep, Sylah. Hassa pushed her in the small of her back, but Sylah balked and strode toward the bridge.