“Fucking Embers,” Sylah agreed. Her hand squeezed the basket of Anoor’s wares so tightly her knuckles tried to burst through the flesh.
The officers didn’t even claim the body. They just retrieved the inkwell and left him there.
“Let’s go.” Sylah tugged on Jond’s sleeve.
They pulled away from the crowds and down the first street that led to her home. The joba plants out front were well tended if not entirely tree sized.
“Hello, Sylah!” Her neighbor Rata waved from her courtyard. Her joba plant was the largest on the street.
“Hello, Rata.”
“Not seen you around for a while, heard about the glasskeep, didn’t like you working in the Dredge anyway. Nasty place. You know they found two bodies yesterday morning? Stripped to the bone from the tidewind. To the bone! Can you imagine?” She gesticulated with her dusting brush. The angry bristles shivered in agreement.
Jond looked at Sylah sidelong.
“No, I can’t imagine.” Sylah rubbed her eyes.
“I’ve been out every morning between fifth strike and eighth strike, cleaning the house and the courtyard. Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t believe it.”
“The tidewind is worse than I’ve ever seen it. And you know I’m advancing in years, so I’ve seen a fair few more than you.” She laughed in hiccups, the brush quivering away in mirth. At fifty, Rata wasn’t much older than Lio.
“Look, Rata, I better get going.” Sylah couldn’t even summon a smile for the musawa.
“Oh, yes, send my love to Lio. Let me know if she needs help dusting. I haven’t seen her out for a while.” She hiccupped, her brush waving them away.
“Why didn’t you introduce me to that delightful lady?” Jond said as Sylah pulled him along.
“Don’t start. You’re lucky we got away so quick; once I was caught there for a full strike. She ended up teaching me the best techniques to clean each leaf of the joba tree.”
Sylah demonstrated a few moves, and they were still laughing when Lio opened the door.
“I heard you weren’t dead.” Lio sucked the joy out of them both in seconds. Her mouth was split into a sharp line. Sharper than a scythe.
“Hi, Mama.” Sylah stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Hello.” Jond waved sheepishly. “I found her.”
“I see that.” Lio crossed her arms. The silence stretched, until Lio eventually deflated. The anger whooshed out of her in a sigh of relief. “I suspect there’s a story to tell. I’ll heat up the stew.”
—
Sylah stayed with Lio for another two strikes. Her mother hadn’t shown a twitch of surprise as Sylah recollected her story. Lio had questions but was most curious about Anoor. “What does she look like? Is she clever? Funny? What’s she like?” Sylah felt uncomfortable answering that. Sniveling, spoiled, annoying, whiny mess didn’t really roll off the tongue.
Before she left, she went to her room to collect a few possessions. It wasn’t until she stood beside her bed that she realized she had nothing to collect. Her room was sparse, devoid of sentimental things; she had held all her treasured items in her hair. Now they were gone too.
She lifted up her straw mattress, the only space in the room she had to store things, and riffled through her clothing. Most of it was dirty, covered in sweat and sometimes blue blood from the Ring. Her fingers brushed up on a crunchy item in a pocket. At first she recoiled, expecting it to be a cockroach, then she recollected what it was and reached in.
She pulled out the parchment and blanched. It was covered in charcoal smears that were meant to be runes. Sylah had tried in secret for years to figure out the technique to bloodwerk. Turns out it was precision, something she wasn’t great at, unless it related to fighting.
If the officers found this in a raid, her mother would be dead just for having the written word so obviously inscribed under her roof. Sylah would be fine, despite doing the deed; her red blood granted her freedom in the eyes of the law—though her Duster acquaintances might cut her down for the deception. Loot certainly would. Sylah stuffed the paper in her basket to burn later. There was still a small bulge in the pocket of her old pantaloons. Two small somethings.
The little balls rolled into the middle of her palm. Encrusted with cotton fluff and the unidentifiable bits that collect in pockets, Sylah could see that the seeds were stale, their red skin slightly dimmed. She put one between a forefinger and thumb. Without thinking it went into her mouth.
“Sylah, are you ready?” Jond’s voice called out.
Jond. The Sandstorm. Anoor.