The Vastness
Volume Three of the Vesteal Series
Blake Hausladen
Published 2018 by Rook Creek Books, an imprint of Rook Creek LLC
Copyright © 2018 by Blake Hausladen
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Edited by Deanna Sjolander
Cartography by Author
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Also by Blake Hausladen
About the Author
1
Emi
Numbers
I live inside my head with numbers. They sing to me in the darkness and do not lie to me. The setting sun bid farewell to the last day of Summer, in the Year of Lord Bayen, 1196, and my fifteenth year in his care. Five years to go until I am free. One thousand eight hundred and eighty days until my crime of being born churlish is forgiven by our lord in heaven and his Exaltier upon this earth.
A cough and cry from the new girl lying next to me startled my eyes open.
“Mother,” she said and began to sob. She tried to shift but bashed her head upon the shelf above us, elbowed me, and scraped her knee upon the wall.
I shut out the noise and tried to count my way back to sleep.
Five per shelf, nine shelves in each rack, eight racks in our lodge, eight lodges along Yellow Row, two shifts of girls, one shift of boys. That’s 1,080 who lived in each lodge, organized by the size of the bodies on the shelves. Eight thousand six hundred forty of us working for—
An elbow struck me from the opposite side. The other three girls trying to find sleep on my shelf were all peering at me. The light from the single oil lamp in the narrow hallway was enough to see their anger.
“Overseer coming,” someone whispered from a nearby shelf, and I was struck a second blow.
The new girl was still crying and begging for her mother. “Why am I here?” she asked and began to thrash.
I woke to it and grabbed her by the neck.
The nearest girl whispered over me, “You don’t have a mother anymore. You are a churl now, and if you do not shut up, all five of us will be pulled off the shelf and caned.”
A cascade of blows flowed in toward me.
“He’s coming.”
I squeezed as hard as I could and the girl wet herself. The girls on the shelf below thumped the board between us in protest.
The new girl stopped struggling, and I clasped my hand over her mouth.
The overseer’s cane rapped on the shelves as he searched for the source of the noise with his one good eye.
One death in our lodge every four days, twice as many during the winter, forty-seven dead from our lodge since the First of Spring. Nine hundred forty bodies from Yellow Row fed to the hogs each year.
One thousand eight hundred and eighty days until I am forgiven.
One thousand eight hundred and eighty days until I am free.
2
Emi
Teeth
A rumble of movement yanked me from sleep.
I followed the rest off of the racks, stripped off my tunica, and handed it to one of Dame Franni’s girls in exchange for a bath stone and rag. We crowded down into a troth filled with the water from their washtubs. Some of the girls hated the cold water. It made them mean and they struck anyone who came near them. I loved the cold water. It woke me as I scrubbed, and I was the first out of the troth.
I wrung out my rag like mad to dry myself off. Four times for my hair, once for each arm, two times for my back, front, and each leg. Fourteen squeezes of the rag later, I traded it and my bath stone for a fresh gray tunica.
Some of the girls argued over the clothes, but I never bothered. We were all the same size, more or less, and there was little difference in the gray wool. It mattered far more during the winter, but during these last few days of summer, one was as good as the next.
“Keep calm, girls,” Dame Franni said as she filled tins from a kettle. “Watch your fingers today, darlings. Don’t forget your cups and come back with all ten.”
Every day she said the same to us. I counted my digits to be sure they were all there. Ten. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty girls on first shift. Twenty-eight thousand eight hundred fingers altogether. How many would come back? Not as many as that.
Dressed, I took the offered hunk of sausage and tin cup of hot water and gulped it all down on my way out. Dame Franni’s girls had managed to cook the meat all the way through. I licked my fingers clean, found my way into the alley, and ran between the lodges of Yellow Row. It was a stubby little dead end off of Thorn Street, but did have a gate and an overseer’s house at the west end that kept the rest of the Warrens from troubling us.
I relieved myself over one of the sewer grates before the rest of the girls piled out. It had not rained in a while so the stench that rose from it ma
de my eyes water, but I could hold my breath long enough.
The sun was peeking above the lodge at the back end of the row, and I smiled at it. It was going to be another warm day. The rest of the girls, their skin all pale and thin, did not like the bright sun. My dark flesh loved God’s light and was already warming from His touch.
Other girls started to catch up. Many raced ahead so they’d get better spots on the looms. I ignored them, set my eyes down, and started counting my steps.
Eighty-three to the gates at the end of Yellow Row. Four hundred thirteen steps north along Thorn Street, and then toward the river along Gatehouse Road another 1,738 to Tin Bridge. It had been 1,743 the day before. Had I walked faster, or was I growing again? I’d almost outgrown the rack in my lodge. A bit more and I’d get moved up. It was bound to happen sometime.
The walk got better as I put the uneven cobblestones of the Warrens behind me and stepped onto the flat stones of Tin Bridge. It was my favorite part of the walk. Its stones were large, square, and dark, numbering thirty-five across and fifteen hundred along. Each took exactly two steps. Sometimes I felt like I was napping.
I lost count at 1,404 when a flutter of movement on the far side of the bridge caught my eye. The posts and awnings of each building along River Road were hung with pennants of every color. Flowers filled the sconces and pots, and every gutter and alley was washed clean.
Of course. Tomorrow was the First of Autumn, which meant a parade and holiday to mark the council meeting that happened each season.
“Keep it moving there,” our overseer said, and his cane struck a girl who’d slowed down to enjoy the view. “The looms are waiting, you useless girls. Move.”
The girl yelped and began to cry, but kept moving. Was she the same girl from last night? She rubbed her ear, and I saw the dark circle of a bruise around her neck. I cast my eyes down and focused on my counting.
After 921 steps south along Ash Row, we started up the hill that led to one of the Merchants’ Quarter tithe towers. The priests in the tower were getting ready to lead the city in morning prayer, and a small crowd of women in gray dresses patrolled the park around it quoting Bayen’s Laws at those who walked by. I tried again to hear some of what they said before we made the turn west down the hill, but I never managed to.
I stole a glance north over the many building. I could not see the palace that morning through the rising chimney smoke of the Merchants’ Quarter, but to the northeast, Tanayon Cathedral stabbed above it all—God’s great spire.
Two hundred fifty-two steps toward the river along Copper Road later, we arrived at the gated entrance of the mill. The girls usually ran to get good spots on the looms, but the weaver was there with our row boss. The boss fussed with his black dalmatic and robes until the black and gray chancellery insignia upon his breast was straight, while the weaver tacked a new document on the placard beside the gate. It was the document that said we belonged to him, and there was almost twice as many words written on it. He wore an especially colorful blue tunica that day, and a new whip hung upon his belt. He laughed when he was done and shook the boss’ hand.
I got through the gates and stayed well clear of the flow of girls inside the courtyard. It was a mad dash from there to the ten buildings that surrounded the narrow space. The slow, stupid, and wounded took up the rear. I fell in with them and made my way to building number one. The trample of girls was almost as dangerous as working the rapier catch.
The rows of looms inside each large building numbered five wide and nine deep, with six girls to a loom. The last girls in found themselves working the throw and catch, and at least one of them would lose a finger or an eye. Mine was the first building on the left, and we were the fastest of the weaver’s mills. My stomach growled in anticipation of the hot, meaty broth and bread we would earn if we were the fastest again today. Forty-five looms in the building with a quota of ten bolt lengths each day.
I handed my cup to our overseer at the door, washed my hands in the basin of clean water, and made my way to the pattern table at the far end. I found it as I had left it. Six pattern rods waited for looms to finish, and all the parts I needed to assemble more rods were at the ready. Another overseer came in through the side door and handed me the order log and pattern book.
There were 342 outstanding orders on the log, picked from the 2,407 different patterns in the weaver’s book. I found the next order, did not need to look up the pattern for it, and started fitting teeth to an empty rod.
Four hundred fifty number six teeth, 450 number one teeth, 450 number six teeth. Red, white, red. For each tooth, the girl working the weft side would thread the rapier with the correct color four times, which made eight weft threads per tooth. Used ten times per bolt, a pattern rod would see 10,800 weft threads before a bolt was finished.
I danced with the numbers while my fingers danced with rod and teeth.
I had the next rod assembled before any of the looms had finished, and I began the next order.
Ninety number one teeth, ninety number two teeth, ninety number one teeth, ninety number two teeth … black, white, black, white, black … fifteen stripes in the pattern.
I finished it, and there before me, eight rods were waiting. I’d never been so far ahead, and I’d not gotten any patterns wrong all year. Sixteen per day, 4,512 perfect patterns in a row, using 6,091,200 teeth.
When I’d started at the pattern table, it took thirty girls to put the rods together and another thirty checked their work. I’d replaced them all.
I smiled and enjoyed a moment of the cool clean breeze and glanced up to see the girls’ progress. The tall bolts of linen stretched on the looms were a quilt of color before me, a sea of wefts that bowed to my perfect patterns.
The side door opened again and the weaver, row boss, and several others strode in. Our overseer missed them at first because of his bad eyes, and hurried across. The girls shrank. I fixed my eyes back down on my work, but there was no missing the clatter of the manacles and chains that hung from the boss’s belt. The fist-sized knot at the end of the weaver’s whip bounced on his thigh as they crossed.
“The church is declaring him dead tomorrow,” one of the overseers said to the weaver.
“Who?” the weaver asked, and came to a halt before my long table. I nearly dropped the tooth I was fitting into the rod.
“The Crown Prince, sir.”
“Bah. Bout time. He’s been missing since he betrayed us to the East. And with a bounty as high as that on his head, he must be dead.”
“Afraid so.”
“What do you mean? And you can unfold your arms, you wretch.”
“Sir, beg pardon. I meant only that … his brother Yarik is the worst. We would all suffer if he was to succeed his father and become the Exaltier.”
The weaver did not reply, and I glanced up to see him draw his whip from his belt. The first blow of the heavy knot struck the overseer upon the arm. The second struck his face. Blood spattered my table and my hands as the man begged for mercy and fell to the floor.
“Churls do not speak of Exaltiers,” the boss said and struck him again and again.
The looms slowed and the man’s whimpering died away, until the wet smack of the heavy knot became the only sound.
The weaver slowed and noticed the blood on his fine new clothes. He growled with new anger. “Throw this churl in the river,” he said to the others, and then aimed his voice at the girls. “Get back to work.”
He looked down at me and my table. It took him a moment to calm. “Ahead of schedule as always, Emilia. I keep expecting to see the blue light of Bayen shinning from your fingers.”
He turned to face the girls and his anger flared. “Why can’t you all be a valuable as Emi here? She’s worth a hundred of any of you.”
He leaned back over me and brushed his dry white fingers across the back of my hand. “Do wash off all the blood, though, Emi. Don’t want any of it getting on the linen.”
I could only shake. I
reached for another tooth and fumbled it into place. The weaver departed, and I tried to ignore our overseer as he struggled to drag the dead man out.
Ninety number two teeth … I had to stop again and again to wipe the blood off the teeth. The iron smell would not leave my nose.
… Ninety number one teeth … ninety number two teeth … ninety number one teeth … Wait, that wasn’t right.
I looked down at the rod. I’d finished three in a row with the white and black reversed. And the order book didn’t need that pattern at all!
I searched for the other two bad rods. They had been taken and were already fit to rapiers, threaded, and being run through. The reversed patterns were a plain as day.
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