by Chad Huskins
“I don’t know that I ever used the word clever when speaking about you to my uncle,” Vaedris said, still smiling. “But I definitely do not believe you are guileless. It would be impossible for you to be so. After all, your father was a lawyer and a senator—a fearsome combination, one that surely fostered arguments in the household?”
“I did not like to argue with my father,” Drea said honestly. “I loved him too much. I did everything he told me because I knew it was for the better.”
“Oh,” said Saephis with a perfect smile. “A girl who admires her father. Quite a noblewoman.” Of all the women in the room, she was by far the most beautiful, and her air suggested she knew it. She appeared to be the youngest, and also the most spoiled, if Drea had to guess, for her hands were covered with more stygian bluestones than both her sisters combined, and her voice was too sweet, too innocent. “I see you still wear your family’s sigil on your hand. Tell me, does it have the words of the Kalderus on it?”
“It does,” Drea said, unconsciously touching the signet ring. She suddenly felt as though she had made an error wearing it, despite the fact that Osween had given her permission.
“Remind me, what are those words?” asked Daedoris, who, among all the sisters, had the coldest, most logical air.
“Kalder does not bend,” Vaedris answered for her. “Isn’t that right, new-sister?”
Drea nodded silently.
The room was quiet for a moment as the women weaved and threaded and measured their new-sister.
And Drea also assessed them. The younger sisters seemed the most playful, like cats who might test their limits—they often whispered to one another, sharing some secret that made them giggle. The older sister, though, she was something else. Drea couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something more aggressive in her nature. Something about her eyes. And she never seemed to be curious about what her younger sisters were whispering about.
“Were you always so obedient?” asked Vaedris suddenly, her eyes questing.
Drea nodded. “I was. I still am.”
Vaedris watched her closely, threading her wool across her board with slow exactitude, and without having to look down at her work. Drea thought she had the straight-backed posture and rigid grace of a superior woman, one used to being listened to. But she also had a predatory look to her eyes. If her sisters were cats, then Vaedris was a panther.
“Your loyalty to your father is admirable. But surely you must know his name is being reviled all over the city?”
At that moment, Drea’s own forced composure might have failed her slightly. She looked at her new-sisters. These are to be my family from now on? Sisters who tease me as an outsider and a Taja that goads me and slaps me?
She was beginning to regret her decision not to flee Drith with Halorax and Fritt when she had the chance.
“I had no idea that my father was so hated,” she answered diplomatically.
“Oh, but it’s true,” said Saephis, the pretty one. “Quite hated. After all, it is all but proven that he planned on helping the Imperator overthrow the Senate. He might’ve done, too, if he hadn’t thrown himself in front of that blade meant for Fedarus.”
Drea shrugged, and ran her free hand over the weaving board to press some of the water out of the wool. The water ran off into the epinetron. “Perhaps my father is only the victim of history being written without his input.”
“Sorry?” said Saephis. “What was that?”
Drea looked at her. She knew what was happening here. Her new-sisters were fishing, trying to get Drea to answer some question—any question—and direct her answers towards a confession of some sort. Perhaps the women did have an official order from their uncle to do so, but they were also women, and women liked to know things about people. Siblings, particularly, could be harsh on newcomers to their homes—they tended to treat the newcomer as an invader, a foreign agent that must first be tested before it can be accepted into the fold.
“You said that my father is being considered a traitor, a man who conspired to help the Imperator destroy the Senate. I submit that history is never so clear. It’s murky, and the winners get to write it.”
“The winners?” asked Daedoris. “You mean the Thirteen Heroes?”
Drea turned to face her tall new-sister. “I’m sorry? The Thirteen Heroes? Who are they?” Despite the fact that Fritt had told her, Drea feigned ignorance.
“That’s what some people are calling our uncle and the twelve other senators that killed Fedarus,” Vaedris provided. “The Thirteen Heroes of Drith, who rescued the city from a mad tyrant.”
“Well, there you have it,” Drea said. “The winners. Already labeling themselves heroes. I don’t say they’re not, for I would not be so bitter towards Lord Syphen, the man who has shown me charity when he could’ve easily found reason not to—but I will say that the issues are more, ah, complex than simple heroes and villains.”
“How so, new-sister?” asked Vaedris, still eyeing her while weaving slowly, carefully, methodically.
Drea offered a smile, one she hoped communicated humility and gratefulness at the same time. “I know my place, new-sister. I would not think to educate you on matters of politics—”
“No, please do,” said Vaedris, setting her weaving board to one side. “For I hear your mother entertained you with a few bits of the masculine arts, and my sisters and I…well, let’s just say that we Syphenus are more, ah, traditional?”
Meaning you don’t know a thing about politics, how men run the world, or how anything of importance works, Drea thought, maintaining a gracious smile.
“I beg you,” Vaedris continued, gesturing with a kind hand that flashed with the light of a stygian stone. “Educate us.”
Drea sighed, and tried to put on her most humble face. “If you wish. I will analyze it like this: Imperator Fedarus was equally hated and loved. This is because he is—was—ruler of Drith, the greatest city in the world, a city built by slaves and maintained by their owners.
“This made his rule most divisive, for the slavery system has always been a part of Drith society—it is traditional, and one has to look no further than the Great Generator to see the proof that it works. Yet slavery also seems to stand in stark contrast to the gods’ will, such as Sora, Mother of Mercy. Surely she cannot condone such a system of suffering?
“Philosophers and priests have long debated the morality of slavery, and some in the Senate believe that the priests’ own words have incited some of the slave rebellions of the past. And, as the saying goes, ‘If words were water, the philosophers would drown us all.’
“Fedarus’s willingness to entertain these priests’ arguments was what had many wealthy men of Upper City worried that he might actually institute the Five-Year Law.”
Vaedris nodded thoughtfully. “I’d learned as much from overhearing my uncle and his associates speaking at dinner parties,” she said. “None of that is news to me. I see no new insight in your words. Do either of my sisters?”
“No,” said Saephis.
“Not at all, sister,” said Daedoris. “In fact, if empty words were water, I should think our new-sister just put the Aqueduct Consortium out of business.”
The sisters giggled.
Drea smiled politely. “If you will permit me a final analysis, then, new-sister? For it is in the dissection of these facts, and a deeper look into the nuances, that takes them into the realm of the masculine art of philosophy.”
“By all means, new-sister,” Vaedris implored. “You have us riveted.”
Drea knew when someone was being condescending. Even so, she continued. “If we look at Fedarus’s actions—that is, his entertaining my father’s suggestion to go ahead with the Five-Year Law—we see only political squabbling. But if we look at the people and their perception of him…well, here we see the divergence.
“The reason he was both loved and hated by the slaves, by people forced into indentured servitude, and by the poor, was becaus
e, while he seemed open to the idea of manumitting all of them in time, Fedarus did achieve his political status chiefly by conquering and taking slaves. Mathysians, Calistians, Fostuans—so many of them are now slaves in our city, who barely remember their homeland.
“Drith often goes to war just to fill its coffers and gain slaves. Once the Treasury was brimming with gold and jewels, Fedarus and his Senate allies funneled that money into the Steamwright Collegium—which is why we’ve had such fast technological advancements in recent years. And the slave system has always made labor cheap.”
Drea looked at her new-sisters seriously. “Mankind can build great monuments, indeed, if they don’t care about the payment or treatment of the workers.”
Vaedris pursed her lips. “Was there anything else the lower class hated about Fedarus?” she asked.
“Yes. He also did not move fast enough with the Five-Year Law, and he seemed to back off whenever pushed by the senators, most of whom represent the wealthy Major Houses of Upper City.
Vaedris nodded. “So that’s why the lower class loved and hated him. What’s the reason for the wealthy to have such conflicting emotions about him?”
“They loved him because he was extravagant and wealthy like them, even before becoming Imperator,” Drea said. “But Fedarus had a freakish side to him, they thought—a side that was disturbingly sympathetic to the downtrodden. A rare trait in one so powerful. And if Fedarus had freed even a tenth of the slaves in Drith, wealthy business owners all across the city would’ve been forced to pay them fairer wages.”
“And why would businessmen fear paying fair wages?” Saephis asked.
“Because it would hurt their profits dearly, new-sister. Mind you, they would still profit, just not as much. ‘The wealthy want nothing more than to be wealthier.’ My father told me that.”
“My, my,” Vaedris said, looking at her sisters. “It appears our new-sister is possessed of no small education.” She looked at Drea, and smiled. “One has to wonder, how much of her father still lives in her?”
The women all fell into silence for a moment, until Drea finally answered, “I’m sure as much as your uncle lives in all of you.”
“Then it’s not much,” said Daedoris. “For our uncle isn’t truly our uncle at all.”
Drea looked at her curiously. “No?”
“No. He’s a cousin, far removed. In truth, few in the family had ever heard of Uncle Phaedos before fifteen years ago. But when our House’s previous patriarch, Daedosh, died seventeen years ago, all his estates were left to his cousin, Phaedos.”
Drea thought that odd. “Is that so?”
Vaedris said, “Yes, Drea. Before that time, Uncle Phaedos had never even visited Drith. I was barely three years old when he came to adopt us and took over the estate, and my dear sisters were too small to remember. Our parents suffered from a terrible plague, the same one that killed my father’s brother, Daedosh, and left us without a patriarch.”
“Where did he come from?” Drea asked.
“Who? You mean Uncle?”
“Yes.”
Vaedris shrugged. “Someplace far to the north. I forget the name. But Uncle came at a time when our House was in great turmoil. My father had fallen ill, and died not long after Uncle arrived. My mother had just given birth to Saephis when she followed my father into the grave.”
At the mention of this, Saephis made a solemn symbol in the air with her fingers. It was the sign of Green Three, to bless the spirits of the dearly departed.
Drea’s curiosity was piqued, for this meant she wasn’t the only orphan adopted by Lord Syphen. All three of these girls had been taken in before they even had adequate memories of their parents.
But there was something about the story that bothered her.
“And House Syphen’s previous patriarch—this Daedosh person—he just left everything in his will to Phaedos?” Drea asked. “He left his entire estate to an estranged cousin that no one had ever seen, and who had never visited Drith before?”
“I know,” said Vaedris. “Sounds peculiar, doesn’t it?”
It did. But Drea didn’t want to pry any further. She let the little mystery settle for now. They continued their weaving for another hour, speaking little more. Eventually, Vaedris stood up and declared they were finished for the day, and sent Drea back to her quarters.
Halfway to her cottage, Drea stepped into a large mud puddle, then another one, and another.
Drea stopped. She looked down at the puddles, and saw there was a pattern. Quite a bizarre pattern, too. And the shape of them reminded her of something…
Drea suddenly realized that she was standing near where she’d seen Lord Syphen standing when he met the giant, and that these puddles were not puddles at all. They were the footprints of the iron golem.
So massive. He must weigh a hundred stones, perhaps more.
The enigma of who the man in the iron suit was plagued her. So, when she saw a slave hastening by, she called the man over and said, “There was a man here earlier, dressed all in iron. His armor breathed steam. I never saw his face, for he never took his helmet off. Do you know this man?”
“Oh, you mean old Lord Hiss,” the slave said.
“Lord Hiss?”
The slave wrung his hands nervously, as if speaking of something evil, and he made the sign of the Black Four in the air to ward off fell spirits. “Old Lord Hiss used to be part of a grotesquery. Do you know what that is?”
Drea nodded. Grotesqueries were pretty much what they sounded like, a kind of circus attraction where people and animals with grotesque deformities were put on display for a paying crowd to gawk at. A freak show.
“Nobody knows his real name,” the slave went on. “People just call him Lord Hiss, on account of…well, you know.”
“Yes. The suit. Why does he wear it?”
“He can’t live without it.”
“I’m sorry? How’s that?”
The servant shrugged. “I don’t know, my lady. It’s his curse. That’s all I know. But he’s right strong, and sometimes fights fell creatures in the Den of Beasts.” The man looked uncomfortable just talking about it, and quickly changed the subject. “Can I bring you some water later, Sia?”
“Thank you, I would like that. And some dinner, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all, Sia. None at all.” He started to turn away.
“What’s your name?”
The slave looked at her. “Eh…name, Sia?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her as though this was the most absurd question. What use did a noblewoman have for a slave’s name? “Fengin, Sia.”
“Fengin. Thank you.”
The slave turned and shuffled away quickly.
Drea returned to her gloomy cottage, and there she sat staring out the window, thinking of Thryis and Halorax. Mostly Thryis. Drea’s hand went unconsciously to her wrist, to the hempen bracelet Thryis had given her long ago, after that first kiss…
Unable to shake Thryis, Drea got out a sheet of paper and began a basic sketch of her. Attached to the wall nearby was an electric globe, its flickering light making some of the sketching difficult.
Once she got to the middle of her sketch, she stopped, and her mind returned to the iron golem.
Lord Hiss.
Without her realizing it, Drea’s hands began to move across the paper and form hard lines. The vertical slashes quickly became the outline for a torso, then came the arms. Soon, she’d drawn the helmet, and then the giant iron gauntlets. Drea stared at her sketch of Lord Hiss and wondered what curse had put him there, and what was hiding beneath the surface.
Then she sketched the moons hanging in the sky between the stars. All three moons were present—Gaidus, Janus, and Hirgus. Janus, the largest, was white and bloated, peeking out from behind a single tiny cloud.
The electric light buzzed again, flickered, went off, came back on.
She ate the meal Fengin brought her and then practiced
her flute and arithmetic before bed. Tomorrow was another day.
Once she fell asleep, Drea opened her eyes and found herself standing in the middle of a field of whispering grass. The sky was clear and the sun was out. The Charred Temple was there, just within reach. Standing on his balcony, as always, was the Man. He shook his head at her, as though disappointed in her for some reason.
In the middle of the night, at around the Hour of the Ox, Drea got up and began sketching him, too.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the page. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The Man never answered.
: Markus Dustrang:
The next few days carried on much the same as the previous week, with Drea reporting to the taciturn Taja Osween each day and continuing her studies. Now that Osween had heard her play the harp, Drea had been given a musical instructor, a middle-aged man named Ustus who had long graceful fingers that summoned the most mellifluous notes from the harp’s strings.
On more than one occasion, Ustus had stopped Drea playing in the middle of a piece, and said to Osween, “I cannot help her. She has the hands of a girl but the rhythm of a tree.” Drea didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound good.
The sewing and weaving were always tense. Not because Drea didn’t know what she was doing, but because her new-sisters insisted on gossiping each day, and Drea scarcely knew what they were talking about. They spoke of boys and men of other Major Houses, which ones ought to marry whom, and which of the men were secretly in love with other men.
Through these sessions, Drea discovered that Saephis fancied a young man of House Greuthung, though she didn’t want to appear too eager. Daedoris, the plainest of her new-sisters, was also the most well-read and educated, and desirous only of a man of equal cunning as she.
“Though, such a man has yet to reveal himself,” Daedoris would often say.
“My goodness,” Saephis told her. “If your standards for men remain that high, then you shall die an old maid.”
Vaedris giggled. “Yes, in my experience there are many men who can quote a book on philosophy or a tome on theology, but precious few who comprehend the full wisdom therein.”
