Hassa had to run up to Sylah and stop in front of her before she would look at her signing. Where are you going, Sylah?
“I told you, I’m going home.”
That’s the wrong way.
Sylah didn’t respond, and Hassa found herself running to keep up with her again.
Okay, so where is that exactly?
“Over there.”
Hassa thought Sylah pointed at the Keep, but her hand wasn’t very steady. When they got to the track of the trotro, Hassa reached for Sylah’s hand between her wrists. Please just come back with me, Sylah. You’re going to get yourself arrested if the officers catch you wandering around the Ember Quarter like you are.
“Hassa, I’m fine.” Sylah began to walk across the Tongue, the metal bridge a menacing sight in the dark.
Sylah, please.Hassa moved to grab her satchel, where she knew Sylah still had a stash of joba seeds. The eru leather flap opened, and the remnant of the tidewind did the rest. Her few items rolled around the trotro track.
“See, you’ve caused a mess now.”
Hassa bent down to help Sylah collect her few possessions and saw a roll of parchment. It looked old. Sylah stuffed it in her bag before Hassa could read it. Her ability to read was slow at the best of times. Like all Ghostings, she wasn’t given any schooling, but the Ghosting elders took over the matter themselves, teaching every Ghosting child when they could.
Hassa looked away. The joba seeds sat in a clear latex packet between them. There were enough there to kill her. Easily. All Hassa had to do was kick them off the bridge. But Sylah was fast, very fast.
Hassa swung her foot too late. Sylah clutched the red beads like a child’s toy against her breast.
“I’m fine, Hassa. Just leave me be.”
Hassa reached for her one more time. She didn’t want to give up on her friend.
“Get off me.” Sylah flung Hassa’s limb away like a child. “It must be past your bedtime.”
Sylah, stop.
But she wouldn’t. She crossed the Tongue murmuring to herself until she disappeared into the distance.
Oh, Sylah, I hope no one finds out you’re one of the Stolen.
—
Three koftas lined Anoor’s pocket as she walked. The grease made stains on the inside of her ruffled dress. She didn’t mind, she’d just buy another.
She made her way down the cloisters away from the great veranda, her green dress swirling around her like limp seaweed. The seamstress had only wanted to add one row of ruffles around the waist, but Anoor had asked for five. The final design created layers of bunched-up material from her waist to where the dress pooled around her silver-tipped sandals.
Hexagonal windows lined the corridor, giving her glimpses of the city of Nar-Ruta beyond the Keep. The tidewind had just abated, leaving the full expanse of the empire clear under the moonlit sky. Whitestone villas spread out below her like rows of teeth. The teeth got smaller, squatter, the farther she looked. Her eyes lingered on the molars at the back, decayed, forgotten, left to rot. Was that where her family had once lived? She pulled her woven shawl over her shoulders, though she wasn’t cold.
The clock was situated in the middle of the entrance hall. It was a grotesque thing, all wire cogs and bloodwerk runes so old they were black. Anoor had often pondered how the runes in the clock worked. Many studied them, but none succeeded in replicating the workings and mechanisms. The inventor had died some four hundred years ago.
“Ah, Miss Elsari.”
“First clockmaster.” Anoor nodded. There were only a handful of people who had the ability to read the time from the three spinning arrows. The first clockmaster had studied over a decade for the role and had been an immovable presence next to the clock for as long as Anoor could remember.
“It is three quarters past fourth strike.” His milky eyes blinking up at her from his podium beside the clock. He’d bellow the time across the courtyard at every half strike, the chant would then be carried by the other clockmasters toward the edge of the city.
Anoor felt the weight of the time settle on her shoulders and grew weary. That was odd, the tidewind had only just begun to quieten down for the night. The wind had been getting stronger recently, lasting longer than it ought to. Anoor loved to wake up early and watch the servants dust the Keep, but with the dust growing thicker, now it took them over a strike to clear it.
“Anoor! You cannot just leave without telling me.” Gorn’s face appeared from behind the clock like a geometry book. Square neck, boxy shoulders, and a small triangle mouth. Gorn’s servant attire always managed to look pristine, as if she had pressed it just that moment. It might have been that time had blurred Anoor’s memories of Gorn, but she had always seemed ageless, despite being older than Anoor’s grandmother. She was taller than Anoor by at least three handspans, but she had the ability to make Anoor feel half that again.
“Gorn, I just went to find out the time. Kofta?”