Smoke and Stone

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Taking a deep breath, Nuru made a decision. “Do it.”

  The Artist hacked away Nuru’s long braided hair with a jagged wedge of flint and spent another few minutes fussing over his work until Efra told him to hurry up. That little shard of broken stone was a death sentence. By allowing them to see it, he was saying he trusted them with his life. He sliced away stray hairs and then brushed it out until it hung about her shoulders in tight curls. Finally, he stood back to examine his work. Making small sounds like an annoyed chicken, he spent several more minutes arranging it before finally surrendering. As instructed, he lay out the long ropes of cut hair on the table.

  The Artist eyed the hair. “So what are we making with this? Otochin fetish? Art?”

  “Garrotte,” said Efra.

  “Oh. Of course.” He gnawed the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. “Wait here.” Then he disappeared into the back room.

  Nuru watched him leave, then turned on Efra. “Garrotte? Why?” she demanded.

  “I lost my spike, we have no weapons. It’s stupid to go into a situation like this unprepared.”

  “We aren’t killing them.”

  “Unless we have to.”

  “We aren’t killing them.”

  Efra shrugged and Nuru couldn’t tell if it was acceptance, or dismissal.

  When the Artist returned, he carried four short sticks of ebony that fit comfortably in his fists. Tucked under his arm he had a longer stick that was bent, with both ends connected by a strip of rawhide, and straight stick with a chunk of knapped flint attached to one end.

  “What are those?” asked Efra, moving closer to examine the objects.

  The Artist lit up at her interest.

  “Sit with me,” he said, sinking to sit cross-legged on the floor.

  Efra sat across from him, entranced. Nuru remained standing, watching the two.

  “These,” said the Artist, placing the four smaller sticks on the stone floor, “will be the grips for the garrotte. He held up the long stick with the knapped flint and the bent stick with the rawhide for Efra to examine. “This is a bow drill.” He turned it, plucking the rawhide to make a thrumming note. “In the inner rings there are things like this, with wood bodies, where the strings are tuned for making music.”

  “Why?” asked Efra.

  He blinked at her and shrugged. “The Hummingbird Guard also use something like this as weapons, but never in the outer ring.” He darted a quick glanced at Nuru before returning his attention to Efra. “We’re going to use it to drill holes in the handles so we can attach your friend’s hair.”

  Efra picked up the stick with the sharpened flint. “How did you attach the flint?”

  “That’s filtered tree sap mixed with ash. It hardens when it dries.”

  Efra placed the drill stick back on the floor. “These are tools. How did you make them?”

  “People have been making tools for millions of years.”

  “All of this…” She gestured at the gathered implements. “You shouldn’t display stuff like this. You can’t trust people.”

  “Are you going to report me to the nahual?”

  “No.”

  “So I’m safe.”

  “Idiot.”

  The Artist drilled holes in the ebony handles. After twining Nuru’s cut hair into long braids, he attached each end to the wood handles, tying it through the drilled holes. When finished, he offered a garrotte to each girl.

  “Ebony is strong,” he said. “It won’t break. And the hair, wound like that, will have more than enough tensile strength to choke a man.”

  “Good,” said Efra. “What’s tensile strength?”

  “The ability of an object to withstand load.” He sounded like he was repeating something from memory.

  “Thank you,” said Nuru, knowing Efra wouldn’t.

  Eyes on Efra, the Artist appeared not to have heard.

  “Now, how about clothes?” said Efra. “The whores always have clean thobes and ours are filthy.”

  The Artist sighed and wandered off to return moments later with two sets of clean greys. They were exactly as if they’d come from the Crafters’ Ring, unmodified, and designed to fit both men and women. Badly.

  He turned his back while Nuru and Efra stripped off their old thobes and donned the new ones. The course material chafed her skin. Geys always took at least a week to become comfortable. The women hid the garrottes in the long loops of fabric.

  Efra examined Nuru. “Better stay away from Happy.” She turned to the Artist, her face a frown of concentration. “Thank you,” she enunciated carefully like the words were new to her. “We owe you for this. We won’t forget. I won’t forget.” She turned to leave and then stopped. “I don’t know how I will pay you back, but I will.”

  He shot Nuru a crooked half-smile. “There is no debt.” Glancing at the entrance, he added, “The Birds have been searching the tenements. They’ve been asking about a scarred girl. Stay safe.”

  Efra nodded and dragged Nuru back out into the street.

  Nuru looked around but couldn’t see Chisulo anywhere. Now, when I wouldn’t mind catching a quick glance to make myself feel better, he hides like a Finger.

  Efra didn’t seem the least concerned.

  Once they were well away from the Artist’s, Nuru said, “He likes you.”

  Efra grunted.

  “Do you like him?”

  “He has nice eyes.”

  “Do you like Chisulo?”

  “He has nice shoulders.” She tilted her head, thinking as she walked. “I like his squished nose too. And his lips, the way he smiles. And his ass.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  Efra sighed, a sound somewhere between wistful, and annoyed. “I know.”

  “Do you feel something for him?”

  “Lust.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t like the way he makes me feel,” said Efra. “It’s scary. I feel vulnerable.” She darted a glance at Nuru. “Vulnerable is bad.”

  Nuru realized where Efra was leading her. “We’re going to the gate now?”

  “Why wait?”

  “I—”

  “Pretend to be the kind of girl Happy likes. Stick your tits out. Act smoky.”

  Nuru thrust her chest out and Efra laughed.

  “Like you’re doing any better,” muttered Nuru.

  “I have the scar.”

  “I think they prefer tits.”

  “Some men want something different.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “These men and women come through the gate to fuck Growers. That pretty much tells us they’re looking for something different. They’ll be curious, as long as I don’t act scary.”

  “Can you do that?”

  Efra shrugged.

  This close to the Grey Wall, it towered above the two women, a constant reminder of the gods. Were it later in the day, it would throw them into shadow. Nuru marvelled at the impossibility of it. One hundred strides tall, the nahual said it took over one million strides to walk all the way around. If one was to walk at a brisk pace for eight hours a day, the journey would take twenty days. Walking the length of the Sand Wall, she recalled, would take well over a month. Not that anyone ever did. At least not Growers. She wondered what the world must look like from up there.

  Someday. Someday I’ll leave the dirt behind and walk the Sand Wall. She’d never left the Wheat District. What were the other districts like? Was it all like this?

  Efra squeezed Nuru’s hand. “There are men coming through the Bird cordon at the gate. Act sexy.”

  Efra led her across the path of two Crafter men. It was hard to judge their age. Where Growers became increasingly bent as they aged, broken by the hardships they endured, Crafters got fatter. And balder.

  The two Efra selected were typical of the few Crafters Nuru ever saw. The older, bigger man wore shirt and pants of orange, the sleeves cut short. The younger, a head shorter than Nuru, wore simila
r clothes but in a faded brown. Where Growers went barefoot and the Birds wore sandals strapped tight all the way to their knees, the Crafters wore floppy slabs of thin leather that slapped the ground as they walked. Nuru squinted at their feet. Nothing but a single loop of leather over their big toe kept the sandals from falling off.

  The Crafters beamed smiles of white teeth when they spotted the girls. Or one did. The younger Crafter smiled nervously.

  What are we doing? This was a mistake. She never should have let Efra talk her into this. Only her hunger to see the spider completed kept her moving. Glancing over her shoulder, she prayed for even a glimpse of Chisulo. Nothing. He was doing a masterful job of staying out of sight.

  “Girls,” said the older of the two Crafters. Hair thinning, he looked kind, but his eyes betrayed a hunger Nuru didn’t like. He had thick fingers, rough with callouses, and was rounder than any Grower. A lot of it was muscle.

  So they do still work. Maybe they were more like Growers than everyone thought. But then why were Crafters allowed to pass through the Grey Wall where Growers weren’t?

  Nuru waited for Efra to take the lead. The girl froze, squeezing her hand hard enough to hurt.

  Nuru had no idea what to do. Was there some agreed upon process for this? Looking around, she saw several Growers—alone or in pairs—talking to other Crafters who came through the wall.

  “First time?” asked the older man.

  Nuru nodded.

  “That’s fine. You understand what we want?”

  She nodded.

  “Fine, fine. In trade we have sweets.”

  Checking over his shoulder, making sure no one was paying attention to their transaction, the Crafter removed a small leather pouch from a pocket. The Birds at the gate saw everything, ignoring the transaction. The pouch had leather ties and designs worked into the surface. She’d never seen anything like it. Opening it wide enough to give her a glimpse within, he held it under her nose. Black lumps looking suspiciously like polished pebbles lay at the bottom.

  “Anise,” he said.

  Nuru leaned in to sniff and blinked in surprise. Nothing, not even the ripest fruit had ever smelled so sweet. Her mouth watered.

  “And perfume,” he said, putting the pouch away and waving a bottle the size of her smallest finger at her. The liquid within was light brown, like muddy water.

  Why would anyone fuck a Crafter for this shit?

  It occurred to her that she should haggle. She looked to Efra for guidance, but the girl just squeezed her hand again and nodded.

  Looking up and down the street, she saw no sign of Chisulo. Where is he? Chisulo always took instructions too literally.

  The Crafter misunderstood. “Don’t worry. As long as we don’t bring anything useful through, the Hummers don’t care.”

  Hummers. So the Crafters had their own name for the Birds. Interesting. The word ‘useful’ caught her attention. What else might they have that we don’t? She couldn’t imagine. That little leather pouch, shown so casually, was already beyond her experience.

  “Your friend is pretty quiet,” said the Crafter. “That scar, is she right in the head?”

  Like you care. Nuru nodded.

  “Fine. Fine.” He looked a little disappointed.

  “We have a place!” blurted Efra.

  “She speaks!” The older man turned to the younger. “Which do you want?”

  The youth glanced up at Nuru, looking her over like he was selecting a piece of fruit. She wanted to hit him, to tear aside the veil of lies and show him the world of her power.

  “I want the small one,” he said, nodding at Efra.

  “Fine, fine. That’s good. I’ll take the brains of the operation.” He winked at Nuru. “I don’t suppose you’re hiding a mean streak? Got a little fight in you?”

  He turned away, missing the cold look of death that crossed her features.

  “Follow us,” said Nuru. “Our place is really comfortable.”

  “Dirt hovels are never comfortable. Anyway, I come pretty often. I have a couple of rooms I rent for this.”

  Rent? What did that mean?

  “Trust me,” he said, and she knew she didn’t. “You’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Our place—”

  “No.” He gave her a long, searching look. “If this isn’t what you want, there are lots of other Dirt girls who do.”

  “Let’s go with them,” said Efra.

  “Yeah?” The Crafter stared at Nuru, waiting.

  She nodded. Come on Chisulo, just let me catch a glimpse of that squished nose.

  “Fine. Fine.” He offered her a hand and she stared at it until it returned to its usual place. “Fine,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

  The older man set a fast pace. The younger, walking at his side, stared at everything like it was the most amazing sight to behold.

  Nuru scanned the streets. Still no sign of Chisulo. You better be following us.

  The old Crafter led them to a nearby set of tenements. When he spotted one with a washed-out stain of brown over the entrance, he grunted, “This one,” and entered. The younger Crafter followed, with Nuru and Efra entering last. A tall Grower, all bone and sagging skin, sat on an overturned box far enough inside to be out of the sun.

  “You know these two?” the big Crafter asked, gesturing at Nuru and Efra with a meaty thumb.

  The old Grower looked them over, gaze lingering on Nuru. “Nope.”

  The Crafter nodded, apparently satisfied, and led them through to the back rooms.

  Heavy curtains of some thick material, lined bright in colours, hung over every entrance, deadening the sound. She’d never seen so much colour in one place. The windows, too, were covered. Candles, purest white and perfectly straight, provided the only light. Pots of burning incense filled the air with cloying sweetness. When he swept the curtain aside to allow Efra and the young man to enter, Nuru saw the walls within were lined with the same fabric.

  He led Nuru to the next room.

  She entered and stood staring. “What is that?”

  “A bed.”

  “No, on top of that.”

  “A mattress.” He laughed, enjoying the moment. “A real mattress, not a thobe stuffed with rotting straw.”

  He followed her in, allowing the heavy curtain to fall into place. The room was full of a quiet that was unlike anything Nuru ever heard before. It felt like the rest of the district disappeared, ceased to exist. Crossing to the bed, she touched the mattress thing. It was soft and squishy and covered in another fabric which shimmered in the candlelight.

  “What’s inside?” she asked, squeezing the mattress.

  “Down.”

  For a moment she thought it was a command, that he wanted her to kneel and pleasure him, but he looked distracted and not at all interested in sex.

  Noting her attention, he added, “And before you ask, the fabric is called silk. Yes, it’s soft. If you try and steal it—even a little—the nahual will bleed you dry.”

  “I’m not a Finger.”

  “A what?”

  “A thief.”

  “No, you’re a whore.” He pointed at a bowl of water set out on the stone table. A folded square of fabric, again different, again strange and new, lay beside it. Flower petals floated in the water.

  Nuru crossed to sniff at the water, stalling, waiting for Chisulo to come charging into the room. She touched the fabric and it was soft and deep. She lifted it and brushed it against her face.

  “You use it to scrub yourself,” said the Crafter.

  “What about you?”

  “I take baths every day.”

  Every day? Growers were allowed into the bathhouses once a week. Trying to slip in more often earned lashes in the public square. No one cared if they went less often or not at all.

  “Stop standing there staring at me and clean up,” said the Crafter.

  Chisulo, where are you?

  Nuru touched the wood handle of the garrot
te tucked into her thobe.

  I can’t do it.

  Turning back to the bowl, she dipped the fabric into the water, wrung it out, and then scrubbed her hands. Desperate to see Chisulo, angry at him for waiting until the last second, and terrified of what she might have to do if he didn’t show up, she kept glancing at the entrance.

  What if he doesn’t come?

  If she said she changed her mind, would the big Crafter let her go? What if he didn’t? Could she try and kill him? If she screamed, would anyone come to investigate? Probably not, she decided.

  Efra slipped into the room and Nuru’s heart jumped and then fell in disappointment.

  Why was she here? Had she changed her mind?

  The Crafter turned the moment she entered, scowling at her. “Don’t tell me this is going to be a problem. I don’t have time to waste on scared whores.”

  Efra glanced at Nuru who now stood behind the Crafter. Jump him now while he’s distracted, her eyes said. Nuru stood rooted.

  “Um,” said Efra.

  “Get back in there and take care of my boy.”

  Your boy? Did he somehow own the youth? Come to think of it, the two did look kind of similar. She struggled with the concept. Had this man somehow found his son in the Crafter Ring and figured out their connection based solely on some shared features? She’d heard about that happening with Growers, where two people would meet and look so similar everyone figured they had to be related. Whatever the truth, there was some connection between the two.

  “Something happened,” blurted Efra. “He’s not moving.”

  No, no, no. Nuru’s heart dropped into her belly. She killed him. She couldn’t imagine how Efra dispatched the boy so fast.

  The Crafter knocked Efra down in his rush to get into the other room and she landed badly, cracking her head on the wall.

  Nuru scrambled to her side. “Are you hurt?”

  Dazed, Efra blinked up at her with bleary anger. “Go fucking get him!”

  Nuru hesitated. “You’re—”

  “They’ll kill us if he escapes.”

  “But—”