This report seeks permission to develop a further three (3) duty chutes connecting the cities of Jin-Wonta, Jin-Sukar, and Jin-Laham. The tubes will be manufactured in Jin-Hidal under the existing duty service contract and installed by Duster laborers five (5) handspans below ground.
A master of bloodwerk has been procured from the guild of knowledge to assist the operation, and mark the tubes with the necessary runes to transport messages along the tunnels. The chutes will increase communication between the three provinces on the east coast of the empire, that currently have only eru-messenger services.
—Bill 237, proposal to develop additional duty chutes
The dress pinched Sylah’s armpits, making her sweat despite the chill in the air. The brown wool hung a handspan off the ground, and the waist sagged somewhere below her flat chest, but it was the simplest garment Anoor had. Anoor’s gowns and suits were far too extravagant for a lesser Ember household servant like the identity she had concocted for Sylah.
Anoor would have to send off for Sylah’s uniform. The obnoxious scarlet pinafores worn by the Ember servants were enough to make Sylah gag. The overlarge collars patterned with the wardens’ kente colors were like a choker of iron—reminding them who their masters were. As if she could ever forget.
The duty office was a dire thing. It sat on the outskirts of the courtyard like a forgotten runt. The building was squat and tidewind worn, so unlike the well-kept whitestone of the main building.
Thwum. Thwum.
The duty chutes made Sylah jump, the canisters filled with letters that traveled back and forth toward the other cities of the empire, pushed by bloodwerk.
Thwum. Thwum.
Sylah flinched again. Her hearing, like her other senses, had been cleared of the fog of her joba-fueled days. She didn’t like it.
As well as managing the postal service, the duty office was also in charge of receiving the new servants for the Keep. So Sylah was told.
The traveling basket under her arms was filled with trinkets she’d found lying around Anoor’s room. A book, a paperweight, some leftovers from lunch. Things her “character” might have needed en route to Nar-Ruta. Of course, the falsified letters of recommendation sat atop it all.
Anoor had pointed her in the right direction and then hung back under the cloisters—just in case her presence roused “suspicions.” The girl was living a griot tale.
She was just about to join the queue when there was a tap on her shoulder. Sylah slipped into a Nuba defensive stance automatically.
“Hassa?” Sylah’s eyes bulged in their puffy sockets.
Sylah, are you okay? What’s going on? Why are you dressed like that?
The questions were signed so quickly it took Sylah a minute for her mind to catch up.
“I’m fine,” Sylah said and pulled Hassa away from the interested stares of those ahead of her in the queue.
An Ember, talking to a Ghosting? Impossible, they all thought. But Hassa had taught Sylah that anyone could learn the language; it’s just that no one tried.
She dragged Hassa to the edge of the branches of the joba tree in the courtyard.
Sylah, I’ve been so worried.
And it was true, she did look worried. Her little mouth was pulled into a taut line, the bags under her eyes as wrinkled as her beige servant dress that only Ghostings wore.
“I’m sorry, it’s a long story, and I’m in the middle of unraveling it. I’m going to be a servant.”
A servant?Hassa shook her head in disbelief.
How was Sylah going to explain that she was going to be a servant when Hassa thought she was a Duster, and Dusters were no longer allowed in the Keep, ever since the Night of the Stolen. Ever since she was stolen.
Sylah opened her mouth to garble out a lie.
Don’t.
“What?”
Don’t lie. I know you’re an Ember. I know who you are.
“What?” Sylah’s stomach dropped through her quivering intestines to her feet.