Stray

by Evan Fuller

  11.

  Swear to Brahm

  The doorbell rang. Emery opened it to find Lydia bundled up so that only her eyes were visible. She was shivering nonetheless. He stepped aside to let her in. “Thanks for coming. They’re upstairs.”

  They briskly ascended the staircase to where Emery had installed the siblings in the last of the estate’s six bedrooms—he’d moved Carrot in with Oliver for the time being. The two were sitting on the bed, still shivering despite showers and fresh clothing. Emery hoped they hadn’t caught pneumonia, or anything else, on their way through the sewers. He needed to complete the tunnel soon, so no one else would have to come this way. Both of the children were skinny, but the girl’s wild hair contrasted her brother’s shaved head. “Told you we’d get new sweaters soon,” she was saying as Emery entered.

  “Leila, Ben, this is Lydia. She helps out with the people who live here and will make sure everything you need is taken care of. Lydia, this is Leila and her brother Ben.”

  “Bustle,” Leila said as she had before. “His name when he was born was Ben but even Mama calls him Bustle now.”

  Emery nodded. “We can manage that.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Lydia extended a hand to Leila, who stared at it for a few seconds. Finally she touched Lydia’s hand with her own, awkwardly, making no attempt to shake it. “I’m sure you two are hungry?” Lydia asked. Bustle’s eyes were suddenly as big and round as fifty-rai pieces.

  Emery smiled. “I have Oliver preparing something right now,” he said. “If you two are up to it, I’d like you to tell Lydia and me where you’re from and what brought you here. Where do you live?”

  “At the Lorraine,” Leila said. “Floor Six.”

  This might prove somewhat difficult. “And where’s the Lorraine?”

  “Over near the bay and Dead Shore, and not too far from the Vine. Not near the bridge though.”

  “Do you know who manages the borough?”

  “Yeah, ‘course. It’s Duke Girard’s borough and his boss is Viktor whatshisname. They say they just Brahm’s servants like everybody.”

  “And who’s Brahm?” Emery asked. He had assumed whoever ran the borough would be Leon Zakarova’s servant, if anyone’s.

  Leila looked utterly perplexed at the question. “You dunno who Brahm is? I thought you was a pureblood. Purebloods gave us Brahm in the first place.”

  “Brahm a little statue who made the world an’ all that,” Bustle added. “Missus Ebony’s is stone but our Brahm is jus’ wood.”

  Emery was even more lost than Leila, until Lydia said, “Maybe it’s a derivative of Brahman, the Haqiqat god?”

  Though Jehovah God was the most widely worshiped deity in Rittenhouse, most Farsi adhered instead to Haqiqat. According to M. Oburumu, the religion had resulted from the attempt to merge Hindu monism with the remnants of Islam, a faith that by all accounts had fallen into decline decades before extinction. To Emery, the differences between Haqiqat and Jehovah’s church seemed largely semantic, though he was sure both Jehovah’s and Brahman’s followers would disagree. “How do these people serve Brahm?” Emery asked.

  “Well, Missus Ebony says—said,” she corrected herself with a downcast look Emery couldn’t interpret. “Missus Ebony told us most everything about Brahm. She said everybody’s gotta do their part for Brahm. I dunno what Duke Girard’s part is, though.”

  “And what’s your part?” Lydia asked.

  “Bustle and me work in the factry.”

  “The factory?”

  “We make all sortsa stuff in the factry. We made these sweaters,” Leila said, motioning to the new ones Emery had given them from the bedroom wardrobe, “but Bustle and I just do the buttons. The factry makes gloves and shirts and jackets too. We send a lotta stuff to the purebloods, since they gave us Brahm, but a lot goes to the Bazaar too.” She cocked her head. “You sure you a pureblood? You shoulda known this stuff.”

  “I’m pretty sure.” Commerce with the outside had ended decades ago. It was common knowledge that contraband such as poppy gum found its way into Rittenhouse, at least in small quantities, but mass-produced goods? He tried to conceal his shock. “You’re telling me you made the sweaters you’re wearing.”

  Bustle shrugged. “Jus’ the buttons.”

  “And do you have any idea how the things you make at the factory get into Rittenhouse?”

  “Dunno,” Leila said, “but it gets into Fairmount through the Low Door, just like everything else.” At Emery’s encouragement she continued: “We can’t go too close to Fairmount ‘cause if we cross Dusky Street you purebloods will shoot us. So we have to go into this tunnel that goes under the street and to the Door. It’s more like a box than a door, and we gotta crank it till it gets into Fairmount. When we’re done stitching the buttons on our sweaters we put them in a barrow and take them to the Door, and that’s how we get our potato ration. And you purebloods send the books and statues of Brahm back for us.”

  “But that damn Teardrop took our forty,” Bustle added.

  Leila nodded. “Teardrop’s the guy who watches the Door. He stole our sweaters before they got into Fairmount, and we woulda at least lost our hands for that ‘cause Missus Ebony didn’t know he was there then and woulda thought we were stealing. So on our trip to the Bazaar before Missus Ebony found out, we ran away.”

  Emery was too amazed to respond, but Lydia asked, “And how did you find your way here?”

  “Well,” Leila said, “that’s kinda a long story.”

  “Nah-uhh,” Bustle interjected. “You jus’ set one dumb ol’ house on fire, an’ that blurry lady came to take us to the king.”

  “Umm. So, can we go eat now?” Leila asked quickly, casting a dark look at her brother.

  “Sure.” It was just as well; Emery needed a moment to process all this. “Just go down the staircase and make a left. I bet Oliver’s almost done cooking.”

  “Thanks!” Leila sprung from the bed, grabbed her brother rather forcefully by the wrist, and hurried into the corridor.

  “Well.” Lydia shifted in her seat, more alert now than she had upon her arrival. Apparently she was as jarred as Emery. “That’s definitely the craziest story I’ve heard from a newcomer.”

  His head was spinning. “Let’s try to run through all of this. There’s a hidden door or tunnel or something that runs between the old city and Fairmount. Apparently the Farsi, or some Farsi group, not only have contact with the outside but are exporting a revised version of Brahman’s mythology to coerce a large number of outsiders into cheap labor, the products of which are being smuggled in and sold as Farsi-made goods. How in the name of Jehovah—or Brahm, for that matter—has no one found out about this?” He glanced at her. “Try to think. Have you ever heard anything that might be connected?”

  The question wasn’t received the way he’d intended it. “Don’t you think if I knew about something like this I would have mentioned it to you before? Hell, Emery, do you think the Farsi have conventions where we discuss how we’re breaking Unity law? I spend more time here than with anyone from my own circle anyway.”

  “You know I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” Emery said wearily. “Of course you would have told me if you knew anything about this. I’m just asking that you let me know if you think of anything you’ve heard before that might be related, now that we have this information. This could be the exit we’ve been looking for, and it would be great if we had some way of finding it.”

  “Let’s start with this.” She raised a sweater she’d taken from the dresser. “We got these from Jafari, down on Spruce Street. It’s that big factory that sells their goods—at least they say they’re their goods—out of the same building. I’ll go by there tomorrow and see what I can find.”

  Emery nodded. “Maybe these Low Doors will lead us to Jacob’s Ladder. I’m going to keep following the Redemption lead, but who knows? Maybe they’re all connected.”

  Lydia yawned; it sounded forced, tho
ugh she must indeed be very tired. “Can I go home now? I was hoping to get some sleep tonight.”

  “Just make sure Leila and Bustle are settled in before you go,” Emery said. “I unfortunately have something I need to do. Salvador apparently snuck some poppy gum into the house when he arrived. We were in the middle of a friendly conversation about that when these two came knocking, so I need to finish that up.”

  “This was the boy Green advised you not to take in.”

  “The very one. Green has some sound advice to offer, it would seem.” He glanced at the clock. It was nearing one in the morning. He and Lydia were both awake enough, though, to be aware of the other’s tension. “Well,” he said, “let’s get to it. Hopefully we’ll both get to sleep at some point tonight.”

  “Yeah.”

  Lydia rose and hastily exited the room. Emery gave her a few moments’ distance before he followed. Salvador was still in the kitchen when he returned.

  “Come with me,” he told the boy. He turned and made for his study without a backwards glance. A flip of the light switch inside revealed the impressive room in the same disarray he’d left it after his recent meeting with Green. The wooden ship was still careening on the edge as if ready to plunge, and a clod of mud from the gateman’s boot rested on the work area. He brushed the latter into a wastebasket as Salvador closed the door and took a seat, throwing his feet up on the desk. Emery reached across it and shoved his legs off; the boy nearly toppled from his chair.

  “Where were we?” Emery asked tersely.

  Leila and Bustle’s arrival had given Salvador time to sober up; if anything, he was more combative for it. “Talking about property,” he replied.

  So he wasn’t going to make this easy. Emery drew a long breath. “That’s right. I think we were talking about how this house is my property, and if you’d like to continue living here, you’ll have some respect for the rules.”

  Salvador stretched, cracked his neck. “Ye’ sound like my masters at the Arbor. I thought in this civilized place, we might have a discussion, maybe a vote.”

  “No such luck. You and me, we’re not on equal ground here. You don’t walk into another person’s house and declare it a republic. If you want fairness, go back outside where you’re not living on my charity. But you can’t do that, can you?” He was furious. “You already screwed that up, which is why you’re here to begin with. So you’ll cooperate.”

  “Just like outside, then, isn’t it?” Salvador smiled, and when Emery saw that smile, he felt a moment’s dread. “Whoever has th’ power gets his way.”

  “If you ignore the fact that I’m saving your ass to begin with, yeah, I guess you can frame it that way.”

  “Ye’ aren’t quite ready to kick me out yet,” Salvador said. “Don’t threaten if ye’ won’t follow through.” He rose from his seat.

  “You’ll bring the rest of that gum down here.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think fast,” Emery spat. “If that bag isn’t on my desk in half an hour, you’ll see whether I’m ready to follow through. And send Miren down here.”

  The desk was beginning to look better when she knocked several minutes later, though he’d merely stacked the scattered papers with no attempt to properly arrange them. “Come in,” he told the timid tap on the door. He was a little surprised Salvador had even relayed the message.

  Miren chose the opposite of Salvador’s contentious strategy. She quickly crossed the room, reaching down to embrace Emery before he had begun to speak. He softened at her touch, but only for a moment. “You’re not getting out of this.”

  She took a single step back.

  “I expected something like this of Salvador, Miren. Not of you.”

  She rounded the desk and sank into the chair opposite him. “It’s not really that big a deal, Emery. Everyone chews gum outside. It’s like a glass of wine with dinner here. I used to have a bit to unwind when things were really ugly at home. I was never dependent, but it helped sometimes, you know?”

  “Your home situation has no bearing on today. This is a totally different environment.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not always an easy one to be in.”

  The first Salvador, now this: he wasn’t sure what surprised him more. “I can’t imagine what could possibly be easier. You have everything taken care of.”

  “I have everything taken care of, and I’m not allowed to leave the estate. We have a bunch of rooms and a walled yard and the tunnel. You’re gone a lot, but the rest of us are kind of trapped here. Until these new kids showed up tonight, it’s been me and Oliver and Salvador and the two young ones. Lydia most days… that’s the limits of our world here. I’m obviously grateful to be here, but it gets claustrophobic, Emery. It starts to make us crazy after a while.”

  “So I guess I should start buying drugs for the house. You know, to give you something to do.” He was too tired for this. “But that isn’t even the point. Instead of talking to me about it, you went behind my back with Salvador. That was low.”

  Miren put her hands on the desk. “Is this about the house rules, or about you and me?”

  He stared at his hands. “It’s about both. I’ve stressed honesty since we first met, before I even brought you here. I don’t see that you’ve given me any reason to believe your word.”

  “I’ve kept the rules for a long time since coming here,” she replied. “But if we’re going to be together, you have to treat me like an equal, not a child.”

  Together. Was that what they were? “But we’re not. We aren’t equals. Your being here means your safety and my risk, and there’s really nothing we can do to make that an equitable arrangement. The reason I have house rules is to keep everyone here alive and safe. Now that you’ve undermined that, I can’t even get that stupid kid to give me the rest of the gum.” He put his head in his hands, elbows pressing on the desk. “This is why I never got involved with Lydia when she first came here. There are too many ways it can become an enormous mess. Let’s just call what happened in the tunnel a one-time thing and—”

  Emery felt Miren’s hand on his wrist, pulling his arm away from his face. Her kiss cut short both the sentence and the sentiment; he returned it wearily. “No,” she said urgently. “You’re just tired right now. We’ll find a way to work this out. In the meantime, I swear I won’t go behind your back again.”

  Emery sighed. “Get some sleep, Miren. I’ll see you in the morning. I need some time alone.”

  “Okay.” She kissed him again and stood. “And I’ll talk to Salvador for you. He’ll bring the gum down, just watch.”

  Too weary for further conversation but too on-edge to attempt sleep, Emery opened yet another folder of his cousin’s journal pages that he’d had brought down from the attic of the estate. Michael Garis had known this city’s secrets far better than Emery ever may. The maddening quality of his journal was in the extent of its omissions: as if he feared his writing might be discovered, he had created an immense volume of text that was nearly useless to anyone but himself. If Emery had ever encountered a reference to Redemption or the Low Door in his prior reading, he would likely have overlooked it, as Garis certainly would not have described it sufficiently for Emery to discern its meaning. Striking a match to light the small lantern on the desk and dimming the electric ceiling light, Emery put the other papers in a single towering stack at the desk’s far corner and began to lay the letters out.

  The door opened without a knock. As Miren had promised, it was Salvador. He approached the desk, upon which he dropped a cherry-sized clump of naked gum that stuck to the wood on impact. He glared at Emery for a long moment as if preparing to speak, then wordlessly exited the room. He left the door ajar; Emery, knowing it would be little use to call after him, rose and shut it himself.

  He sank back down into his seat, looking over the letters arrayed on the desk. Since most logging went to wood-burning for fuel, paper was an expensive luxury in Rittenhou
se, but like land, it was one to which Michael Garis had possessed seemingly unlimited access. One entire sheet might be given to as sparse a note as:

  TUES 21 OCT

  VENTURE → C THR.

  rain=del. delayed, rcvd by Sat?

  The notes’ simplest passages were easy enough to decipher, such as the last line as this one. But key parts that would have made sense of each letter as a whole were deliberately obscured: Emery couldn’t guess what to make of “venture,” much less “C THR.” Moreover, these code words and abbreviations were connected to one another by an incomprehensible web of circles, underlines, and arrows that seemed deliberately crafted to disorient a prying reader.

  “Venture” was one of Garis’ most common references; Emery had tried to make sense of it before, but to no avail. When too many minutes had been wasted scouring the letters under the flickering light for any reference to Redemption or the Low Door, he resolved to group all the papers referencing “venture” and see if he could make sense of them. Of the hundred pages in tonight’s folder, he found the word on more than ten, but every time it appeared with similarly little context. Once it appeared in close proximity to a SAM—whether this was an abbreviation and what for, Emery was unsure—and mention of a “payment” of some sort. He was sure there was something relevant here… but no, he couldn’t find a connection. If there was one to be found at all, he was far too tired tonight to see it. He squinted at the papers spread across the desk until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. Exasperated, he let his head fall rather heavily onto the hard wood. He was jolted awake when something crashed to the floor only a moment later.

  He forced himself up out of the chair and circled the desk. Damnit. The finely constructed model of his late cousin’s fishing vessel glared accusingly back up at him, her main mast snapped clean in half. He stooped to scoop her up, reeling a bit as he struggled to keep his balance. Several smaller parts had fallen off, but the damage didn’t look irreparable; with enough care, someone with more time on his hands might be able to reconstruct her. Oliver would enjoy a project like that, Emery was positive. Maybe.

  Emery found a glass on an end table near the door—it had been a drinking cup, but it was empty and not too visibly dirty now—and carefully put the loose parts in it. He put the ship on the end table next to the glass, knowing if he placed her on the desk she was liable to fall off again. She didn’t look quite seaworthy at present, but with some attention he was sure she’d make a full recovery. The golden plaque still boasted GGS Endeavor as loudly as it had before.

  GGS Endeavor. He shot a glance back at the journal pages blanketing the desk. Suddenly they began to make sense.