The Final Strife

There are only three things a Duster needs to be taught: basic arithmetic in order to manage the market stalls, reading in order to follow written orders, and the religious sermons in order to preserve their soul for the afterlife in the sky. This can be taught to all Duster children by the time they are ten, ahead of their branding.

Ghostings need not go to school at all. As long as they can listen, they can follow their master’s orders.

—Extract from Education: The Greatest Gift by Wern Aldina, Warden of Knowledge

It looked like Anoor had been back from the winners’ banquet for some time. She’d even put her own clothes away instead of leaving them in a pile beside her bed until Sylah had to remind her she wasn’t going to pick them up.

“Where’ve you been?” she demanded, an errant curl pulsating beside her temple.

“I had some business in the city.”

“That family friend again?” She was trying to probe with the subtlety of a cantering eru. Sylah was tired.

“Remember the deal.” Those three words had always stopped her questions before.

“I’m just asking. All seems a bit sneaky. I know you’re a trained assassin and all that, but why are you meeting him? Is he an assassin too?”

An assassin for every Ember in the empire, Sylah thought. Instead, she stared out of the window, waiting for the questions to stop.

“Why’s your uniform ripped?”

Sylah looked in the direction Anoor was pointing. The clasp on the top of the pinafore had frayed, keeping the strap on by a thread.

“Must have fallen.”

Onto a very, very beautiful man.

Anoor let out an annoyed sigh. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“We’re going to sneak into the warden library tonight,” Sylah said, breaking the silence.

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

The map lay open on Anoor’s desk, and it looked like she’d been studying it for the hundredth time.

“Tonight.” She nodded deeply, her eyes lighting with mischief.

“That’s what I said.”

At least with Anoor by her side, if Sylah was caught she’d be given a much lighter punishment. She would just be the servant doing her master’s bidding.

“Sylah?” Gorn called through Anoor’s bedroom door.

Sylah groaned. “Back to work. See you tonight.”

—

Once the tidewind began to batter against the shuttered windows of the Keep, Anoor and Sylah left their chambers.

Sweat was still drying on Sylah’s brow, cooling her fevered skin. They’d trained for three strikes, Anoor learning the second Nuba formation. She’d failed every time, but every time she got up and tried again. Sylah respected that.

They were both wearing their training clothes: head-to-toe black cotton. It reminded Sylah of one of the stories she’d read in Anoor’s zines, the Inquisitor sneaking through the night in dark clothes trying to solve a murder or some such.

Gorn didn’t wake as they slipped past her room. The door made a creak as it opened, and they froze for one bated breath, but she didn’t emerge.

“Step one. We made it out of your chambers.”