The Final Strife

“No, thank you. You’ve stained your dress.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” She hoped the tailor could find the exact fabric again; it had taken her two mooncycles to ship it in from Jin-Noon. “I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Anoor, you know your mother wanted you to stay all night.”

“Well.” Anoor exhaled slowly. “I simply cannot shame her by wearing a stained dress.”

“Anoor…”

“Gorn, I’m tired. I smiled, I clapped, I bowed, I did all the warden asked of me.”

The clockmaster cleared his throat beside Anoor, and Gorn saw him as if for the first time. She grabbed Anoor with sharpened nails and dragged her into an alcove.

“Ouch, you’re going to draw blood.”

Gorn dropped her hand. “Anoor, I’m just trying to protect you, you know when she gets mad—”

“Shh.” Anoor’s eyes widened. “Do you hear that?” She held up a finger to Gorn’s lips. She had to reach quite high.

They both leaned forward, and Gorn heard the soft groaning Anoor was referring to.

“Someone’s having sex,” Anoor mouthed and pointed to the alcove over. “Just there, can you believe the audacity of it?” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Maybe they’re long-lost lovers? Or maybe they fell in love on the dance floor and now they’re to be wed!”

“Or maybe they are intoxicated with firerum and are as primitive as Dusters.”

Anoor prickled at that. “I’m going to bed.” She had a zine she wanted to finish before daybreak. The stories were included weekly in The People’s Gazette, a newspaper run by the guild of duty. The main character, Inquisitor Abena, was a fierce Ember woman whose investigative skills were unmatched across the empire. The series documented her solving high-profile crimes. The most recent edition, “Sweet Red Wine,” followed her to the vineyards of Jin-Eynab. Someone had hidden the body in a vat of grapes and then served the bloody red wine to their guests. Anoor thought she knew who the murderer was, but she needed to finish the story to prove herself right.

Gorn rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Anoor knew she had won. She always won. Gorn was her servant, after all.

—

Anoor hated the tunnels that led to her chambers. She only used them during the night, when the tidewind raged or in its aftermath, when the debris blocked the path to her rooms.

Every day the servants placed waxy red flowers in tall vases that lined the damp walls. Instead of masking the smell of mold, the cloying perfume mixed with the stench, sticking to the back of her throat.

They had reached the end of the tunnel where a narrow set of stairs led to the back of the kitchens on the eastern side of the Keep. Anoor’s chambers were one more flight up.

She hadn’t resided in the Elsari household, hadn’t for some years.

“I’m just going to stop in the kitchen and see who’s working.”

“Anoor,”—Gorn dug her fingertips into the bags beneath her eyes—“you know your mother doesn’t want you to make friends with the servants.”

“Well, this one time, maybe you don’t inform her.” Anoor’s voice was light, if a little brittle.

Gorn didn’t respond.

The kitchens fed all the citizens who resided in the Keep: members of the court, servants, and the wardens themselves. There were sometimes more than two hundred servants working in the kitchens at once. But today it had dwindled as the last of the food had circulated at the party.

Anoor walked into the kitchen and felt a rare pang of belonging. She had spent many strikes down here as a child.

“Anoor!” A young man with a pockmarked face and bright, intelligent eyes waved at her from across the hearth.

“How are you, Kwame?” Anoor said as she walked over to him. Kwame was one of the few friends she had, though her mother’s influence had drawn them apart.

He was covered in flour, but he hugged her anyway. His guild token, which he wore around his neck, pressed against Anoor’s cheek. “Haven’t seen you for a few mooncycles.”

“School has been busy with Choice Day coming up after the Aktibar.”