by Chad Huskins
Beside Drea, Daedoris made a sound of pure disgust. “I loathe the Street of Stone,” she said. “I wish you’d told us we were going there, I might’ve skipped our trip.”
“Take heart, sister,” Saephis teased. “You might finally find your future husband there.”
“The dull, unwashed masses are more to your liking, sister, as we all know,” said Daedoris.
The smile fell from Saephis’s face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
The two girls sniped each other with insults the rest of the way. Drea paid them no mind, and neither, it seemed, did Daedron. Vaedris looked perfectly serene as she looked away from them all, watching the world slide by.
“Personally,” Vaedris said, “I find the Street of Stone perfectly invigorating.”
Daedron lifted an eyebrow. “Invigorating? Really?”
“Yes. It reminds one to work hard, so that one does not end up in debt. Most of the workers on the Street of Stone are debtors, people forced into indentured servitude.” She shook her head. “Work hard, and you’ll have to work little. Work little, and you’ll spend the rest of your life working hard.”
Another axiom derived from The Way, no doubt, Drea thought. And how strange, since I can tell that this woman hasn’t been forced to work a day in her life.
The carriage made it to the Stairs of Arakus, then passed through Uldur’s Gate, which remained closed to all but those of the Major Houses. Its large iron hinges squealed and its steam-powered pistons hissed as it opened to admit them onto the Lane of Elegance, whose white marble streets were reserved only for the wealthy.
After almost an hour of driving, Drea noticed the air was slowly filling with brown dust. And she knew they were close.
By the time they came within sight of the Street of Stones, Drea and her new-sisters were already coughing.
A set of rail tracks bore many iron carts from one end of the street to the other. All of the carts were directed along a crisscrossing matrix of rails that took them through the Wall of Nadis, beyond the Iron Gate, and into the mines east of the city.
Most carts brought coal. Some of the carts, however, carried unprocessed rock that had been pulled up from the Vagarr Caves north of the city, which potentially had jypsite, bluestones, and crixstones hidden within.
At the center of the Street of Stone, Drea saw the giant wheels being pushed by hundreds of slaves. The main engine of a breakrock machine was this giant wheel with spokes. Each spoke was pushed by one or two slaves, around and around in a circle, and it powered the drill at the center of the giant machine.
At regular intervals, the carts carrying raw ore were pushed forward by another team and tipped over, their contents spilled into the wide bowl beneath the drill. The drill, powered by slaves and steam, ground up the rock, while overhead superheated water—which was channeled freshly from the Great Generator—came splashing down to wash away the smaller bits. Stygian stones were aggravated by superheated water, causing them to glitter with darklight, making them easier to sort out.
Waves of steam burned Drea’s skin as the carriage approached, causing intense sweating despite how cold the day was.
There was singing going on. Slaves were known to sing work chanties while they went about their business. They sang,
We’re bound, we’re bound,
To the center mound,
The ol’ master’s looking,
So best not turn around
It was a morose song, and every solemn-faced man and woman sang it, whether they were shoveling, carrying away fresh crixstones, or pushing the spokes on the breakrock machines.
Everyone sang.
Out the corner of her eye, Drea caught a strange sight. A woman. Not a slave woman, but one dressed in a dark stola and an even darker palla. The woman appeared out of place amid all these slaves.
And, if Drea wasn’t mistaken, the woman seemed to be looking right at her. Do I know her, or…?
Suddenly, as if sensing some danger, Daedron furrowed his brow, and started looking around quickly. It was as if he’d heard an angry wasp close by. When he turned to search the crowd where Drea was looking, the woman quickly disappeared behind one of the stone columns holding up the breakrock machines.
Does Daedron know her? Was he looking for her?
The woman left an impression on Drea. She had been on odd thing to see amid so many shirtless, sweating slaves. And it was interesting that Daedron had seemed to detect her…
“Strange,” she muttered to herself.
Vaedris overheard her, and misunderstood her meaning. “Yes, I suppose it must be strange for one that’s never seen it. Here it is, Drea—the underbelly of Drith.” Vaedris looked at her. “Work hard, so that you don’t end up here, or like your friend Thryis Ardenk.”
Drea eyed her. She disliked the indirect insult aimed at her friend.
The carriage halted and Daedron stepped out. He approached a fat, toothless taskmaster, who drove the slaves with a whip. Daedron began conversing with him. Their argument was long, and became heated. Meanwhile, Drea and her new-sisters began fanning themselves just to keep cool. Steam and dust filled their carriage, becoming oppressive.
Finally, the taskmaster returned to driving his slaves, and Daedron climbed back into the carriage. “Apologies. A simple misunderstanding that needed to be set straight.”
“And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow when we weren’t with you?” Daedoris asked.
“No,” he said shortly. “It couldn’t.”
Daedron thumped the door and called for the driver to take them home. As they rode away, Drea heard another song cue up. The workers were a bit more energetic about this one. They sang,
Direshire has got its killers,
Oldhome has got it mages,
But Windscape has the Lady Blackveil,
All draped in talismans and sages
The song followed them away from the Street of Stone. Drea could hear it echoing from the buildings, reverberating down each lane that they traveled.
The Direshire pirates told her to run,
“Run! And don’t stop till you see Blackrun!”
She told them, “You can dress me down,
But I’ll bet you five crowns,
You’ll face the barrel of this gun!”
Somewhere at the back of her mind, the name Blackveil connected with something. Something recent…That’s the name Izyru Omp whispered to me.
The ride home was long. Eventually, Drea fell asleep. It shouldn’t have surprised her, since she hadn’t slept well the night before. She didn’t dream. The sounds and smells of Drith were her lullaby, giving her glimpses into her past—walking with her mother in the streets, holding her father’s large hands down the Avenue of Celebration.
Thryis. Yes, she was there, too. Just glimpses, really. Moments from their past, when they had gotten to know one another, when Drea had thought her an overconfident brat, and Thryis had told Drea she was “too strange” to even be friends with.
“I am more than willing to be an accomplice in the occasional hijinks, because you seem able to keep secrets,” Thryis told her in the dream. It was being resurrected from an old memory. “But you are too strange to be a friend. No, you are too contradictory. Sometimes quiet, sometimes enraged. Part your mother, part your father. Too unpredictable.”
In her dreams, Drea also saw the few incidences that had given Thryis this impression of her. The temper tantrums, the shouting matches, and the occasional violence. Her Kalderus rage brimming over the surface of her quiet, trained, feminine exterior.
Half in dream, and half awake, Drea recalled the last time she had lashed out at someone…she didn’t like to think of that, though.
The dreams tried to force it on her.
She saw the shouting match.
The boy standing in front of her, shoving her down.
Her hand going for the knife…
…and before she knew it—
“Drea?” said Vaedris softly into
her ear. Her new-sister nudged her, and, without thinking, Drea opened her eyes. A flash of rage punched through her, and she snatched Vaedris’s hand away and twisted it. And with her foot she kicked Vaedris’s leg and sent her stumbling back into her seat.
“Ow!” Vaedris screamed. “Little witch! What is the matter with you?”
In the span of a heartbeat, it was over. Drea suddenly released her grip on Vaedris’s wrist. Her heart was racing. Her blood was up, the rage still so close…but then it subsided.
“I’m…I’m sorry! Forgive me, Vaedris—”
“I was only trying to wake you,” said her new-sister, massaging her wrist and wincing in pain. “I was letting you know we’re here.”
Drea looked around the carriage and realized that they were alone inside. The others had already stepped out, and Daedron waited at the carriage steps with his hand held out, waiting to escort them into the house.
“Apologies, new-sister. Please forgive me.”
Vaedris huffed. She turned and stepped out of the carriage. “I fear we’ve adopted a feral beast. She’s been too long in the wild, too long without a proper family!”
Daedron watched Vaedris storm into the house, and he called after her, “Perhaps it’s the gods’ will that she came to us, then.” He looked at Drea. “Don’t worry. She won’t hurt you. She will jab you with barbed words for the next week or so, but then it’ll blow over.”
He offered his hand, and Drea stepped down. “Thank you.”
“Are you all right? It seems like you had a nightmare. Shall I escort you to your quarters—”
“No!” she said, perhaps a bit too harshly. “That is…no, thank you. I’m all right. I was just startled.”
“Of course. Well, I hope you enjoyed our time at the Forum.”
“I did.” And she was surprised that it wasn’t a total lie. Drea had discovered that while talking to Daedron in the Forum, her mind had actually been pleasantly engaged with philosophical stimulation.
It agreed with her, even if her company had not.
Well, no, that’s not entirely true, is it, Drea girl? she told herself as she made her way back to the cottage. Daedron wasn’t totally disagreeable, was he? Much kinder than his sisters.
Back at her cottage, she found Fengin was there. He was stoking a fire for her. “Apologies, Sia,” he said. “I wanted the fire to be fully prepared before you got back.”
“It’s all right, Fengin. Did you happen to see Thryis when you delivered my letter?”
“I didn’t,” he said apologetically. “But I left it with her father, for the girl was out working on the Great Generator. Apologies, Sia—”
“It’s fine, Fengin. Thank you for your service.”
For a moment, Fengin just stood there, giving her a puzzled look. At first, Drea didn’t understand it, but then she realized this was probably the first time he’d ever been thanked for anything. Slaves did as they were told, and the only time they heard feedback was if it was admonishment for an error they made.
She wished to speak with him more, if only to talk to someone who’s motives weren’t questionable, but Fengin quickly scuttled out the door before she could say another word.
The large black tome of The Way sat on the table beside her easel where she’d left it the night before. Daedron had said she’d best return it before anyone noticed it missing, but, because of her discussions today on the topic of power, Drea couldn’t help but crack its spine one more time.
The Second Precept, she read. Lie only when necessary. Lies are like threads—if you only have one, the fabric still appears pristine. But the more lies you tell, the more frayed the fabric becomes, its integrity is broken, and it is frighteningly easy to unravel. Soon, the fabric is gone, and you are left naked.
Lie rarely, so that on the occasions that you must lie, people will believe you. And prepare your lies well ahead of time, so that they do not seem rehearsed. And always lace your lies with truth: Lies work best when there are grains of truth to them.
This made sense, even if the motives behind it were, like the rest of the teachings of The Way, meant for manipulating people and otherwise behaving dishonorably.
Third Precept, she read on. Conceal your true intentions, even from your friends. One never knows whom one can trust, and today’s friend can become tomorrow’s enemy, and you do not want your enemies knowing your most intimate secrets.
This chapter extolled many more virtues of concealing one’s intentions. It claimed that, as long as a person kept their goals a secret, they kept them free from ridicule.
Also, the book went on, should circumstances arise that require you to change your goals, you will be glad that you concealed your intentions from your friends and allies. For should you need to change your mind, it will not appear that you have changed your mind. In this way, you appear to always have total control over circumstances, and even Fate.
This helps you maintain the Glamour. Remember, the Glamour is all-important, and your reputation for honesty must be above all suspicion.
Drea read until her eyes became tired, and she put the book back down and gazed out at the night sky. Dark clouds had covered Gaidus and Janus, but stubborn old Hirgus was out, bathing the trees around the cottage in her pinkish light.
Drea took up her charcoal stick, and began a few sketches. This time she drew a full-body portrait of Thryis, her clockwork leg and all. It made her happy to look into her friend’s eyes again, even if they were only simulation.
And Drea thought, I wonder where you are now, Thryis luv.
: Machine:
Think like the machine, Thryis Ardenk told herself upon waking. Do as the machine does. It was what her father had drilled into her.
When the sun dawned that morning, it did so on a day more bitterly cold than any other Thryis could remember. It would be up to her to stoke a new fire. Once upon a time, a servant would have had a fire going before she rolled out of bed, but not anymore. House Ardenk could afford neither slave nor servant now.
Thryis rolled out of bed, her joints aching acutely from the previous day’s work. She hopped over to the other side of the room where her prosthetic leg leaned against the wall. She was fast at pulling it on, but the sleeve that fit around her stump wanted some tightening. She finished snapping all the straps into place, tightened everything down, then used the winder tool to wind it up.
The gears in the clockwork leg ticked and clicked. She gave it a testing step, then pulled off her shift and rummaged through what was left of her wardrobe. Shivering, she pulled on her shabby stola and fur-covered sandals, then wrapped herself in her mother’s old cloak—her last such cloak, for all her others had to be sold.
Across the room, someone moaned. It was Thrayton, her brother. He was curled into a ball and with no covers. Thryis gave his cheek a kiss and bundled the covers around him.
While her brother and father slept, she moved about the house, prepping some tea and wheat pancakes. There was little honey left, so she saved it all for Thrayton—the picky eater wouldn’t touch his breakfast without it.
All that morning, her thoughts never left Drea. It plagued her, having to leave her friend there with Phaedos Syphen, the primary conspirator against the Imperator.
“It is not to be borne,” she muttered angrily to herself, cutting the wheat pancakes evenly as Thrayton preferred.
Thryis tried to put her mind on other things, but it was no use. Drea’s absence was like a missing tooth, and Thryis’s mind was the tongue that couldn’t help but feel the empty socket.
After she stoked up a fire, Thryis warmed herself by its flames and reread the letter she’d received from Drea.
My Thryis,
Thank you for your letter. I know we haven’t seen each other much this last year, but just knowing that you’re out there and in support of me means worlds. I’m grateful for your friendship, for without it I might have fallen into despair long ago.
Also, I have done as you asked. Each time I loo
k at the globes in the house, I think of you.
This part made Thryis smile and tear up.
I often think of my recent misfortunes and lament that I’ve lived a cursed life. But the fall of my House can be endured as long as Thryis Ardenk lives. As long as I know I have your friendship, I vow to all the gods to never give up hope for a better tomorrow.
Lord Syphen has been a most gracious host, and I’m already learning much from his nieces, and from my new Taja.
Do not fear for me, simply focus on keeping yourself and your family healthy. Give your father and brother my best. I hope to see you soon.
Sincerely,
Your Drea
Thryis knew that Drea had put in that last piece to mollify any suspicions Lord Syphen might have about her, for surely the man was monitoring all her mail.
“Insufferable man!” she muttered, closing the letter and tucking it close to her heart. “Make her your ward, will you? And marry her off to some family of yours, no doubt. I see your mind.”
When Thryis had first learned that Drea was meant to be the ward of House Syphen, she had become angry enough to spit. The insufferable man! He wants to continue playing with Drea’s life as her father did, as the Imperator did.
Thryis finished prepping breakfast, and laid it all out for her father and brother to find when they woke up.
Before leaving for the day, she went upstairs to check on her father. Her clockwork leg clicked and clacked as she made her way over to him.
Lord Thronis Ardenk was shivering under an inadequate blanket when she found him, his breath coming out in white tufts. Thryis touched his withering white hand and whispered into his ear. “Father.”
He came awake slowly, looking around bewildered, as if confused to find himself in these environs. When his eyes landed on her, he smiled weakly. “Thryis girl, you’re awake?”
“Yes. It’s morning.”
Thronis blinked, and coughed. “Morning already?” He looked at the windows, and saw the shafts of daylight pushing through. “So it is. How did that happen?”
