Glaen gathered up his blanket, tying it over his shoulders like a cloak. It was the only belonging he had anymore. The scratchy wool was a thin shield against the brutality of the world outside, but he would rather die than let the opportunity pass. He hated this place and all it represented. Being stuffed in here by the National Taint Registration Authority to live out his days with his hands covered in chicken blood—for the simple crime of loving a good woman—was more than he could bear. Damn them all, every single one, from the Chief Administrator of the Authority down to the lowliest file clerk. How did they come to think they were so much better than the tainted? The tainted could twist stone with nothing but force of will, made light in the darkness, washed the human body of sickness and disease. The tainted were the superior race with their ability to change the very shape of the world. The untainted knew it, knew they were inferior and in the face of their powerlessness, they reached instead for hatred. Glaen cursed them all. Especially Tashué Blackwood.
When Glaen’s feet reached the floor, he was immediately sucked into the crowd that had come down from the bunks. The crowd was an angry thing, gnashing and vicious. Someone knocked into him and Glaen staggered back against the bunks. His shoulder struck one of the wooden posts. Pain flared but he righted himself quickly, trying to imagine what would come next. Should they run? The doors were several floors down. A chunk of the crowd surged toward the staircase, but Glaen hung back. He didn’t dare try to fight the crowd down the stairs. One ill-placed footstep would see him crushed by the horde.
The door flung open and a knot of guards burst into the great dormitory hall. But they were defenceless against the collective talent of their charges. The sound of crunching bone was unmistakable, even though muffled by flesh. Some had time to cry out, to flail uselessly, but others were killed swiftly, lifeless before their bodies landed.
Someone grabbed Glaen’s arm, dragging him away from the crowd. Rezji. The whole room was brighter, the air flowing more freely than before. A storm raged outside, howling and cold and blowing rain into the dormitory. Glaen realized Rezji had changed the shape of the wall, forming an archway that let the rain inside—and let the tainted out.
Rezji led the way and Glaen followed. Beyond the opening was a stairway, narrow and steep and terribly slick with water. His limbs locked with fear, freezing him so hard that it made his muscles ache. How high up were they? How far was the fall?
Stop looking down. Those were Gianna’s words when she stood on the window ledge, looking out over the city. She said it again now, standing at Glaen’s shoulder and pushing him on. Stop looking down, my love.
He forced himself on, letting rage push him past his fear. The storm was vicious, wind and rain buffeting against his body as if it wanted to pluck him off the steps. People behind them were pushing forward, desperate to be free. The press of bodies would knock them from the stairs, or if someone above came stumbling down toward them—Glaen tried to swallow his fear, to smother his imagination from continuing. Reality was bad enough.
A shout behind him, loud and desperate. The sound was cut short, interrupted by a wet slap and a hard crunch. Glaen didn’t need to look back to know what had happened. Someone’s footing had betrayed them and they had fallen to the courtyard below. Fear rose with bile in his throat and he gagged on his own miserable terror. His legs trembled so violently that he was certain they would give out. Rezji was dragging him on, faster than Glaen’s feet could keep up, and they were going to fall. Their bones were going to smash against the courtyard and their flesh would split with the impact and their blood would ooze into the grooves between the cobbles.
Glaen’s feet touched the ground finally and his knees buckled with the relief. Rezji pulled him harder, forcing him back to his feet. Only then did he think to turn, to use his talent. He cursed himself as he reached out, gathering light from the world around him. He felt it flowing through his veins. He sent it back out into the world, formed as a tiny knot that hovered over the stairs and lit the way for the rest of the people trying to escape. By its glow, Glaen saw the fallen man, neck bent at a terrible angle, skull cracked and oozing. The rain washed away the worst of the gore, but more came and Glaen wondered if the man was still alive and unable to move, drowning in blood and rain and unable to save himself.
Shouting came to him through the storm, the words hazy and indistinct with the roar of the wind to drown them out. Turning, he saw guards running through the gloom. Rezji was the first to react and the cobblestones shifted, folding over the first guard’s boots so the man staggered and fell, feet trapped in place but his momentum carrying him on. He smashed his face against the undisturbed cobbles with a shout of pain, but then those stones too reached up and took hold of his neck, snapping the bones with a terrible crunch. Someone else lashed out with their talent, throwing down a wave of energy so sharp and vicious that it nearly cleaved a woman in two. Blood spurted from her mangled body.
Glaen’s eyes swept the prisoners as they surged down the stairs. He grabbed Rezji’s arm, leaning in so that his voice could be heard over the roar of the storm.
“Where is Jason?”
Rezji shook his head, dismissing the question with a wave of her hand. “He is away. Somewhere else. Come!”
Rezji tugged on his arm and the crowd of prisoners reached him. The iron fence before them shimmered in the storm, glittering with the rain—or was that the metal beginning to shift? Yes, someone had reached their talent out to the fence and it twisted.
The sound of gunfire boomed over even the storm and Rezji grunted. Glaen caught her as she staggered and hauled her back up. Another gun roared, and another, and beside Glaen a woman fell with blood pumping from her chest. One of the tainted stopped, turned, and when a guard fired their rifle, the roar of the exploding powder was immediately followed by a howl of pain. More gunshots, more howling, and the guns went silent. Destroyed, Glaen thought. It would be a small thing for a tainted to reach out their talent to weaken the barrel enough that the ignition of the black powder would cause the weapons to shatter.
Rezji limped, but on they went, toward the gate, and those shimmering bars bent out of the way enough to release them. They rounded the precarious footing of the island, slipping and sliding on the stone. Glaen half-dragged Rezji along. They couldn’t afford to slow down, not now. They reached the bridge that stretched over the river to Brickheart and there the crowd of escapees caught up to them, carrying them along with their momentum. Most pushed deeper into Brickheart, filtering among the big buildings like fish in a stream. Glaen turned, pulling Rezji south instead, leaning into the rain and the wind and the vicious cold to run along the river toward Cattle Bone Bay.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from everyone else!”
They ran until Rezji’s breath came out in gasps so short and shallow that Glaen wondered if she was dying. He led her to a sheltered doorway where they could hide from the rain. It was no warmer where they hid and as Glaen wrapped his thin blanket around both of them, it was so wet and cold it felt like wrapping himself in ice. There was comfort in the weight of it, though, comfort in listening but not feeling the wind as it howled through the city.
“I have no skill with wounds. Is it bad?”
Rezji laughed then, twisting to look at some part of her back. “Not so bad. Hurts. Hurts like a demon. But it’s not so bad.”
“Where are you hit?”
“In my arse.”
Her response was so prompt and matter of fact that Glaen couldn’t help but laugh. Rezji turned and Glaen created another glowing ball of light. He kept it small, used his wool blanket to shield it from view. Blood soaked her trousers all down one leg, and the hole torn through the cloth was small.
“I think it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Not much blood in the arse.”
They laughed again. Glaen heard the brittle edge in the sound. It was all so ridiculous, so obscene, so terrible.
“You’ll need to s
ee a healer, I think. Gianna told me once that gunshot wounds are filthy. I wouldn’t want to imagine what gangrene in the arse looks like.”
Rezji shuddered. The laughter faded away. Glaen let the light extinguish lest someone see them, leaving them standing in the dark and the cold. Rezji’s teeth chattered, and Glaen’s fingers started to go numb. He realized that in learning how to make light for the brights of the city, he had forgotten that he knew how to make heat as well. The Authority didn’t want heat in their glass globes. The glass would crack as the temperature changed or melt if the tainted weren’t careful, so they taught them to make light alone.
He closed his eyes and reached for his talent. His body became warm first, like drinking a lovely hot cup of tea. He held onto as it grew, hotter and hotter until it scalded him. He let it trickle into the wool blanket until the fabric started to steam. Rezji’s shivering subsided.
“How long do you think we should stay here?”
Rezji shrugged. “Your idea.”
“I didn’t think past this point. Should we run maybe? We should go before the storm dies. It would make it easier to get away, wouldn’t it?”
“Away to where?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you part of the group that organized this? Where was everyone supposed to go?”
“They only wanted Jason.”
“Who wanted him?”
Rezji shrugged again. Glaen fought against the newest wave of frustration. This woman had helped him escape, after all. Rezji sensed Glaen’s annoyance, though, tilting her head in that way that she did when she tried to see out of her good eye.
“I don’t know ‘who’. They wanted Jason. The rest of us… A distraction.”
Glaen took a deep breath, looking out toward the storm. It was starting to die away, or maybe the warmth coming from the blanket was improving his outlook. The heat built in him, burning his joints, making his ligaments ache. He let go of his talent, but the heat lingered in the blanket.
“You hate Tashué Blackwood?”
Glaen looked at Rezji again. “Why do you keep asking?”
“I know a man. Maybe he wants to meet you.”
“Who is he?”
Rezji shrugged again, but then met Glaen’s eye. “Don’t know. He had questions about Tashué Blackwood. Wanted me to ask Jason.” She turned, waving toward the Rift somewhere in the distance. “Jason has other things.”
“Where do I find him? This man?”
“Next week, in the Market Quarter. Under the statue of Bronwynn. The one with the sword. I will take you.”
“What shall we do until then?”
Rezji reached into her pocket, producing a few coins. How Rezji had come to have coins in the Rift, Glaen didn’t know. “Find a healer. Don’t want gangrene in the arse.”
Rezji knew the best places to find food, knew markets were between than public houses, knew the Temples of the North Star would permit them to have clean water and a little beer and a few hours of sleep. After using her coins to see a healer, there was nothing left, leaving them at the mercy of fortune and the streets. In spite of Rezji’s wisdom, they were always hungry, always weary. They were warm and dry, at least, thanks to Glaen’s talent.
The hunger and the misery fuelled fires of rage, or perhaps his using his talent made his bones feel too hot. Gianna’s face wasn’t washed of blood and death once Glaen was out of the Rift. Of course it didn’t—his freedom didn’t make her any less dead. She followed behind Glaen as she walked the streets, her voice like a breeze across Glaen’s mind. He found himself talking to her if he wasn’t careful, turning to face her until he remembered she wasn’t really there. If Rezji noticed him speaking to a ghost, she kept her judgement to herself. Perhaps she knew what it was to speak to the past, to have nothing left to look for in the future.
To push Gianna and her death-face from his mind, he thought instead of Tashué Blackwood. Glaen cursed him and his eyes, the same eyes that he’d given to his son. Glaen hated him with every shred of his being for not hating the tainted and imprisoning them anyway. For making a tainted son and sending him to the Rift. For leading the troop that killed Gianna.
The Market Quarter bore new scars, a fire leaving its mark on the buildings closest to the river. Glaen remembered vaguely the rumours of the disaster, but that seemed so long ago now. Gianna was still alive then. The Rift but a threat and not a memory. The statue of Bronwynn, the North Star, was unmarked, surrounded by stalls that sold all manner of delights—from food to toys to leather goods and wooden tools and woven fabric. It was a beautiful statue, wrought from pure white marble. Though Bronwynn had never carried a sword.
Perhaps the sword represents her talent, Gianna’s ghost suggested. How else would you represent talent in a statue?
She used her talent to heal, not to kill.
It doesn’t matter, does it? To them, our talents will always be a weapon.
The man appeared from the crowd, approaching with his hands full. Glaen didn’t know enough about the various cultures contained by the Derccian Empire to read what clues were held in his sharp features, creamy skin, and thick black hair. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, the fabric thick and luxurious and so soft looking that Glaen almost reached out to rub the man’s sleeve.
Rezji stepped forward as the man approached. “This is Glaen. He hates Tashué Blackwood.”
“That’s interesting.” In fact, the man seemed particularly uninterested. He handed over what he carried. Food, Glaen realized, something fragrant and spicy and garlicky, wrapped in tender bread. The man ate carefully, not spilling a drop of sauce or grease on his clothing. “I have an opportunity that I would like you to consider.”
Glaen almost didn’t listen. The food was so good that for a moment it was all he could think about. He learnt quickly the man’s ability to eat without drips was a fine skill indeed—the meat was juicy and the bread was almost too thin to hold it all together. But Gianna waited for him, silent at his shoulder. He could smell her blood even after he’d left the Rift, after there was no trace of chicken blood left on his hands.
“Tashué Blackwood is going to be arrested.” The man wiped his fingers with the paper left over after he finished. “They’ll take him up to Highfield to the citizen patroller station. If you go to Highfield and rent a room above a public house, you’ll be close at hand when he is walked into the station house.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because that will be your opportunity to kill him.”
The words washed over Glaen’s soul like a soothing balm, cooling all the hot and angry places still festering. His freedom hadn’t been as healing as he’d imagined it would be. Gianna was still dead, lingering at his shoulder as if she was waiting for him to make some decision. Would this choice free her finally? A death for a death—Tashué for Gianna?
“You’ll do this, then?”
“Yes. I most certainly will.”
“And you?” The man looked at Rezji then, who was still eating. “What do you want?”
Rezji looked at Glaen first and gave one of her small shrugs. “To leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“Home.”
Glaen’s heart sank. He wanted to ask Rezji to stay, at least for a little while. They barely knew each other, perhaps, but the week they’d spent on the streets was made easier by having her and her shrug, her grunting answers, and her wisdom. But what would she stay for? For Glaen, to keep him company while he bid his time? And what would happen to them after Tashué Blackwood was dead?
Glaen shook his friend’s hand before they parted, but didn’t know what else to say. Thank you seemed insufficient. Goodbye seemed entirely too final.
The man gave him the gun and a purse filled with coins. Glaen’s fingers were still slick with grease and the weight of the gun surprised him, but he shoved it into one torn pocket.
He had to buy new clothes in order to set foot in Highfield; that was where the ruling class lived.
If he went there in rags, he would be quickly noticed. At best he would be escorted to a tram to leave the quarter, at worst he would be arrested by the citizen patrollers and locked away in some cellar.
Finding the station house was easy. None of the houses on the street were as big as the other sprawling mansions Highfield was known for. No one wanted to live within view of the station house, largely because no one wanted to see the coming and goings of criminals from their windows or sprawling gardens. Only those who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else on Highfield bought the smaller houses.
The food, the comfortable bed and the new clothes did nothing to soothe the ache. It made it worse, perhaps. At least when he and Rezji were sleeping in alleyways and taking scraps from market stalls, his life matched his black mood. The large, wool-stuffed mattress only made him miss feeling of body against his. Her ghost only stood at the edge of the bed, ever waiting.
The covered waggon clacked down the cobbled streets, right when the strange man said it would. Taking a deep breath, Glaen reached for the garlic-smelling pistol and stepped from the shadows.
The citizen patrollers had already brought Tashué out of the waggon by the time Glaen emerged from the alleyway. There was a swarm of citizen patrollers around him, a pair with both of their hands clutching each of Tashué’s arms. His hands were shackled, manacles so tight that blood oozed from cuts. His leg was bloody, too, seeping through the heavy wool of his trousers, and he walked with a limp. Glaen wondered what misfortune befell him and felt a surge of savage joy at the thought. Whatever had happened, surely he had brought it on himself.
Gianna followed as Glaen stepped forward, the smell of her decay wafting around him. He was saying her name again, tears pooling in his eyes, blurring his vision. Gianna had nothing to say now. All Glaen heard was his heart pounding so hard and fast, drowning out the sound of the world around him. He couldn’t breathe. He saw Tashué and those big hands were stained red. How many other tainted had fallen to those hands? Who else had he killed?
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