“Aho, don’t judge me. At the end of the day Dusters, Ghostings, Embers, they all look the same as any nightworker in a maiden’s house once you get them nekkid. Two arms, two legs, no hands for the Ghostings, I guess, but they all have the same—”
“Fayl.” Sylah grimaced.
Fayl’s face went slack in innocence. “What? I was just going to say they all have the same bananas under their clothes. Some are bigger than others, some are plantain, if you—”
“Get what you’re saying? Yes, Fayl.” Sylah rubbed her brows.
“Well, my thoughts is this, I don’t give one fuck what blood pumps in their veins. Who cares if the Embers can bloodwerk? Why do they get to rule? I say us Nowerks should have a shot at the top.”
Sylah winced at the name Nowerk. It was an insult used by Embers toward Ghostings and Dusters, but Loot’s guild members, the Gummers, had begun to reclaim it, manipulating it into a term of camaraderie.
Sylah sucked her teeth. “That’s dangerous talk, Fayl. Can’t be saying things against the wardens.”
He shrugged, his hair frizzing around him in soft waves.
“There’s only one warden I’ve pledged to follow. And it ain’t those shits sitting in their fortress and the four guilds they lead. He might not be elected through the trials, or have a seat in the court, but he’s the one we chose. The one us Gummers follow: ‘To resist and sow chaos.’ ” He chanted out the Warden of Crime’s mantra.
Sylah heard other Gummers echoing Fayl’s vow down the tunnels behind him. The words had the lilt of a prayer.
But Loot wasn’t just Fayl’s watcher. He was Fayl’s husband.
Sylah spat out a joba seed.
Fayl looked at it and frowned. “Sylah—”
“Strong tidewind last night.” She cut him off. Sylah liked Fayl, as he was a good watcher. His bulk scared away the rabble. But behind his size he was a kind-hearted man who was always willing to share his firerum with those he liked. Still, Sylah didn’t need another lecture. After all, she had Hassa for that.
“They’ve been getting stronger for a while. You heard it killed another person? They were coming out of a joba den last night.” Fayl looked at the sky. “Never known it to kill this many, in all my years, Sylah, I tell you. Three in the Dredge this week alone. Nasty way to die, tearing skin from flesh, think I’d prefer the rack.”
Sylah thought of the griot and wasn’t sure she agreed with Fayl.
“How’s Lio?” Fayl asked.
Sylah soured at the mention of her mother. “Fine.” She’d have to tell Lio that she’d lost another apprenticeship. “Is Loot in? Putting my name down.”
“Yeah, he’s in, head on down.” Fayl moved out of the way to let Sylah past to the stairway beyond. “Oh, and Sylah, watch out, he’s in a terrible mood.”
“Perfect.”
“My bet’s on you, Sylah.”
Sylah wondered if it was true, if Loot even let him bet.
“Thanks.”
The damp stairway led Sylah to the maze of tunnels under the Dredge affectionately known as the Intestines, probably because of all the shit that went down them. There were many pathways under the city, but no one truly knew where they all led. Countless Dusters had gone missing over the years, led astray by the myth that one of the tunnels led to the warden treasury under the river. If they ever got there, though, they never got out again.
Sylah was careful to follow the pattern she had memorized. Left, left, right, middle. Loot said if you weren’t smart enough to memorize the sequence, then you weren’t worth Loot’s time. He valued wit above all else.
The tunnels led to Loot’s headquarters, which he called the Belly. There the soft orange glow of the runelamps was like the rays of a permanent sunset, and the room was claggy with a soft haze of incense. Books, dozens, hundreds, ran from floor to ceiling, with not one speck of dust mottling their crisp pages.
And in the middle of it all, the self-proclaimed Warden of Crime sat on a three-legged stool. Word on the tidewind was that he had stolen it from the Warden of Strength’s privy room. Sylah once checked. The initials Y. E. were stamped into the underside. It was a statement, proof his network could get anywhere, even into the Keep.
Of course, it was just as likely it was a story he’d crafted, that the wooden stool was nothing but a piece of junk and he’d carved the initials himself. He loved theatrics.
“Loot.” Sylah nodded.
He closed the book he was reading with a snap.