Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  “Hey you!” a man called from the bar. “No children in here! Didn’t you see the sign?”

  Cresten hadn’t. He stood stock still for a moment before pivoting on his heel.

  “Hold on.” A different voice, also a man. He emerged from behind the bar and shuffled toward Cresten, green eyes narrowed, his gaze keen as it raked over him. He was silver-haired, dark-skinned, thin and bent.

  “You from the palace?”

  Cresten nodded.

  “You wash out? No power?”

  “No, it wasn’t that.”

  “All right if it was. S’what happened to me.”

  “You were a novitiate?”

  The man grinned, exposing a broad gap where his front teeth should have been. “Long time ago. What’s your name?”

  Cresten faltered, glanced around. Others watched him. “What’s yours?” he said, considering the old man again.

  “Ho!” A woman’s voice this time, also from the bar. “He’s a clever one, Quinn. Best have a care.”

  For his part, the old man stared down at Cresten, waiting.

  “I’m Cresten. I didn’t wash out. I was… I was told to leave.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Told to leave. Sounds serious. You need a place for the night? Have passage home in the morning?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going home. I need a place for a while. I have coin.”

  “It’s a quad a night to stay here more than a ha’turn. Two if you eat a meal. You afford that?”

  The blood rushed from Cresten’s cheeks, leaving them cold. He couldn’t afford it for long – less than two turns if he spent his money on nothing else. Then again, it was far better than the price at the Red Mist. He didn’t know how many places would be cheaper.

  “I can afford it for tonight,” he said, his voice small.

  “For less than a ha’turn it’s two a night plus one for the meal.”

  He scanned the room, taking in the worn floors, the dull, scratched bar, the mismatched tables and chairs, the grimy clientele, with their threadbare clothes. The place stank of sweat, of stale ale and wine and ancient pipe smoke. If he couldn’t afford this, what kind of dunghill awaited him?

  “I’d better go,” he said.

  The man gripped his arm, his fingers bony and strong. “Not yet, not yet.” He peered over his shoulder. “That small room in the back still free, Lam?”

  “What of it?” Lam was the first man, the one who told Cresten to leave. He was younger, broad in the chest, with lank dark hair and a fat gut. His skin was pale, his eyes dark. Cresten guessed that he wasn’t from Trevynisle, or anywhere in the north.

  “You can have that one for one quad a night,” the old man told Cresten.

  The younger man stepped out from behind the bar. “Now, see here–”

  “My place, my rules.”

  “Our place.”

  The silver-haired man eyed the other. He was no match for Lam physically, but something in his bearing stopped the younger man.

  “Fine. Just keep him out of my way.”

  The old man smiled and held out a hand. “Give me two now,” he said. “One for the night, one to show you plan to come back. The rest you can pay as you go.”

  Cresten looked around again, still conscious of the others scrutinizing him. He pulled the leather pouch from his pocket, plucked two quads from within, and handed them to the man.

  “Come along. I’ll show you your room.”

  The man steered Cresten past the bar and down a ramshackle corridor, to a gray wooden door that hung unevenly on its rusted hinges.

  Cresten was prepared for the worst, but though the room was cramped, it was clean. An empty wash basin rested on a small, plain chest of drawers, and a blanket covered a pallet of fresh straw.

  “It’s not much, but I don’t suppose you need much, do you?”

  “No.”

  The man started to leave.

  “I need a job,” Cresten said to the man’s back.

  The old man faced him again, thoughtful. “That you do. We’ve got nothin’ for you here. Not right now, that is. Can you cut gaaz?”

  “If I have to.”

  “I know someone. Leads a cutting gang. She’s hard, but fair. You could do worse. It would be a start, at least.” He hiked a shoulder and let it drop. “I can introduce you.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Before the man could turn away again, Cresten said, “You never told me your name. Did that woman call you Quinn?”

  “She did. Most do. You can.” He shuffled back to Cresten and held out a thin hand. “It’s good to meet you, Cresten. My name’s Quinnel Orzili.”

  Quinn walked him down to the Windhome waterfront, and south along the rocky coast to a stretch of shoreline where stone and white sand gave way to a pale, warm brown. There women and children stooped under a bright sun, knee deep in the sea, cutting blocks of mud from the seabed.

  Quinn removed his shoes and motioned for Cresten to do the same. Quinn didn’t wait, and Cresten slogged after him through cold water. They waded out to a cluster of workers. A diminutive woman stood nearby, arms crossed over her chest, a broad-rimmed straw hat shading her features. She wore a simple shift that hung to her knees, the bottom half of it damp.

  “Poelu,” Quinn said as they approached her.

  She pivoted, eyes narrowed. She spared Quinn a quick glance and looked Cresten up and down. Her bronze hair was streaked broadly with white, but her face was smooth, her bare arms toned and muscular.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, her accent similar to those of the stewards in the palace.

  “His name is Cresten. He needs a job.”

  She studied him the way she might a horse she intended to buy.

  “He’s too tall. Bending over to cut gaaz…” she shook her head. “No good for one this big.”

  “Isn’t that something he can decide for himself?”

  Poelu scowled. “His hands are big. Hard to pull up blocks with fat fingers.”

  Cresten peered down at his hands, hoping neither of them would notice. He’d never thought of his fingers as fat.

  “He looks strong to me. And I assume he’s smart. He comes from the palace.”

  “Palace people aren’t so smart.”

  “He needs a job, Poelu.”

  “You need him to have a job, so that he can pay you for something.”

  Quinn grinned. “Yes.”

  She sighed, her lips twisting sourly. “Why didn’t you say so straight off?”

  The old man started back toward shore. “You can find your way back to the Hound?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Cresten answered, not at all certain he wanted to be alone with this surly woman.

  “Good. Supper’s at sundown.”

  When he faced the woman again, she was already glaring at him.

  “Cresten, he called you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Gaaz cutting is hard work. Long, hot, even in the God’s Waking. Your back gonna hurt. And you’ll need a hat. You pay for that.”

  “All right.”

  “You ever cut before?”

  Cresten hesitated before shaking his head. She muttered something under her breath that he couldn’t hear.

  She pulled two tools from a pocket he hadn’t seen. One was a long curved blade. It didn’t appear particular sharp. The other was straight and tapered, like a dagger, but one edge had a curled lip that he guessed was meant to slip under the cut block and pry it loose.

  “Knife,” she said, holding up the curved blade. She lifted the other implement. “Handloy.” She pointed to a stack of bricks not far from where they stood. As Cresten eyed it, one of the women added several more blocks to the pile. “All should look like that,” Poelu said. “You do that?”

  “I think so.”

  She held out the tools to him and gave each a little shake. “Take. Try. Let me see.”

  Cresten took them from her, bent over to examine the sea floor where
he was standing, and knelt, heedless of his breeches. He glanced up at the woman in time to see her nod in approval.

  He cut out a brick, trying to match the depth and dimensions of those carved by the others. His lines were reasonably straight. The trouble began when he set down the blade and used the handloy to try to pry up the brick. He struggled to fit the tool into the groove he’d made, and soon had ruined his corners and edge on one side. The woman nearest him had cut and removed two of her own in the time he had taken with this first brick. He tried again from the other side, sloshing around in the low swells to improve his angle.

  Poelu made a clicking noise with her tongue.

  It took him several more tries, but in time he gouged his brick away from the sea floor and lifted it out of the brine. Misshapen, uneven, it resembled a ball of raw bread dough more than it did a brick.

  He hazarded a glance at the gang leader, who stared back at him, her expression flat. She held out her hand, and he gave her the brick. She produced another knife, and after a few seconds of slapping and sculpting had shaped his effort into something resembling a block.

  “Again,” she said.

  His next several efforts were no better than the first, but as he continued to cut and pry, he grew more adept. The last ten or twelve bricks he cut needed only a bit of repair. Still Poelu remained with him throughout the day, instructing him, and berating him for his poor results.

  By the time she called for the others to stop, he was exhausted. His knees and back ached. His fingers were raw. Sweat stung the back of his neck, which had been roasted by the sun. The air hadn’t been particularly warm this day, and it cooled now as their shadows lengthened. But he knew he would pay for not protecting the skin on his neck.

  He staggered to his feet and tried to hand his tools back to Poelu.

  “You keep. I’ll take out of your pay.”

  He frowned.

  “Not too much,” she said. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow morning, sunup. You’ll be here, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She examined his neck and winced. “Get a hat.”

  He limped back to shore, followed the strand to the wharves, and the city lane to the marketplace. Most of the merchants had left for the night, but he did manage to find a woman who was selling hats similar to those Poelu and her workers wore. He found one that fit and bought it, begrudging the expense.

  He thought he would be too weary to eat, but upon entering the inn, he was assailed by the aromas of roasted fowl, fresh bread, and steamed roots. Quinn marked his arrival, waved him to a small table near the back of the common room, and soon had set a platter of food in front of him.

  “How was it?”

  “I’m not very good,” Cresten said around a mouthful of hen.

  “No, I don’t imagine. You will be soon enough. Or you won’t, and she’ll cast you off.”

  He grimaced at this, but Quinn had already started back to the bar. After finishing his meal, and sopping his platter clean with the bread, he stumbled back to his tiny room and fell onto his pallet. His breeches were still damp, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand back up and undress. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired. Only as he drifted off to sleep did it occur to him to marvel at the fact that he had awakened that very morning in the Travelers’ Palace. Already he felt removed from his old life by a hundred leagues and as many turns.

  Cresten woke to chatter out in the common room of the inn, and sunlight seeping into his chamber past a shuttered window. He closed his eyes again, then sat bolt upright. Sunlight.

  He leapt out of bed, grabbed his shoes, tools, and new hat, and sprinted from the room. Halfway to the common room, he remembered to go back and lock his door. Then he left, hopping to pull on each shoe, and clutching the hat as he dodged and weaved his way through the city lanes and marketplace.

  By the time he reached the shoreline and picked his way southward to the gaaz beds, several teams of cutters waded in the shallows.

  He headed out through the cold swells, the footing uneven and slick where teams had already harvested bricks from the mud. Cresten didn’t care. He scanned the water for Poelu, squinting against reflected sunlight. Spotting her at last, he strode toward her, splashing loudly, stepping around other gaaz gangs, earning hard stares from their leaders.

  “You don’t work here,” she said, implacable. She held out her hand. “Give me my tools.”

  “I slept too long. I’m sorry.”

  “I told you, you be here at sun up.” She pointed at the sun. “Sun up three bells already. Give me tools and leave!”

  “It won’t happen again, Poelu. I swear. Yesterday was… It won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t! Because you leave now!”

  They glared at each other. Poelu gave no indication that she intended to back down. And he refused to give up this job. He had worked too hard the day before; he wanted to be paid.

  So he turned his back on her and waded out to where her other cutters worked. There, he dropped to his knees with a splash and began to cut his first brick of the day.

  He heard Poelu sloshing after him, but he kept his attention on his work. She halted just behind him, saying not a word. Cresten was certain he had only one chance to get this right. He made his cuts with precision, took hold of the handloy, and slid it in place, the way he had figured out the day before.

  With a swift, sweeping motion, and a twist of his wrist, he cut the brick free. He pulled it from the water and held it up, still not looking Poelu’s way. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his best brick so far, a vast improvement over the first few he’d cut the previous day.

  She said nothing, but she walked away from him without telling him again to leave. That was all the confirmation he needed. He set his hat in place and continued to work.

  The day dragged. The air was still, the sun’s heat unrelenting. After some time he could no longer tell where the dampness from the sea ended and the dampness from sweat began. He couldn’t imagine how the other workers survived the hottest turns of the Goddess. He hadn’t brought anything to drink, and none of the other cutters offered to share. He sensed that they resented his mere presence.

  By midday, he was famished, but he hadn’t brought food either. His muscles ached. Blisters opened on his hands, stinging in the salt water. He worked slowly, but steadily, his bricks piling up beside him. He couldn’t yet cut with the speed and skill of the older woman toiling near him, so he didn’t try to keep up. He cut what he could, shaped them with care, tried not to worry about the size of his pile next to those of the rest.

  Late in the day, Poelu circled back to him. She bent over his blocks and examined them.

  “You’re slow,” she said.

  He kept cutting. “I’m new.”

  “I pay by the brick. You know this, yes?”

  “I guessed.”

  She didn’t answer. After a time, he assumed that she had moved on. He chanced a quick peek in her direction. She still stood by him.

  “These bricks are good.”

  Surprised, he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Thank you.”

  “Why you leave palace?”

  As quickly as it came, his smile vanished. He went back to cutting. “I did something foolish, and a boy died.”

  “You kill him?”

  “No, but if I’d been smarter, and maybe braver, he’d still be alive.”

  After another silence, she said, “Getting late. You be here first thing tomorrow, you understand? I let you stay today, but two days consecutive and I’ll send you away.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Bring drink tomorrow, and food. I don’t want you dropping dead in the sea. Bad for business.”

  He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t afford to keep buying things to bring to the beds. A hat, now a water skin, and food. Plus his tools. At this rate he would never earn enough to stay at the Hound. But these were his problems, not hers.

  Cresten slept fitfully that
night, waking himself nearly every bell out of fear that he would sleep too late again. When he woke to the soft silver glow of approaching dawn, he rose, dressed, and raced to the gaaz beds. He was there before Poelu.

  The next night, he slept better and still managed to rouse himself in time. And in the days that followed, he fell into a rhythm. His body grew ever more accustomed to waking early, and also to the rigors of gaaz cutting. His bricks looked better, and he had more of them at the end of each day. He didn’t bother spending money on extra food to bring with him, and rather than buying a skin, he convinced Quinn to give him an old, empty wine flask that he filled each morning with fresh water and stoppered with a clean piece of cloth.

  To his surprise, he didn’t miss the palace. He’d had few friends, and at the end he cared only about Lenna.

  Her he did miss. He thought about her constantly, wondering where she was and who she was with. They had repaired their friendship, and at the time that was enough to convince him he would see her again. Now, only a ha’turn removed from his time as a novitiate, he knew this would never happen. She was a Walker, destined to serve one of Islevale’s great powers. He was a gaaz cutter, scrounging for treys and rounds. She was less than a league away, but they inhabited different worlds. Loss of her throbbed dully in his chest, constant, but manageable. She had forgiven him at the end. That would have to be enough.

  When Poelu finally paid him for the first time, Cresten was pleasantly surprised. What she gave him was far from a fortune – four treys and eight quads, after what she took out for the blade and handloy – but it was enough to convince him that he could survive in Windhome.

  Survival, though, was but one of his goals. Every day he stumbled back to the inn too weary to do more than eat and collapse onto his pallet. His sword and sextant remained hidden in his sack. He hadn’t touched either since leaving the palace. How could he train himself to be a swordsman and a Spanner if he couldn’t find the time or strength to practice? It also occurred to him that he didn’t know where he might work with the sextant. Travelers of every sort plied their skills without a stitch of clothing. Bound sextants, chronofors, and apertures didn’t work if travelers wore so much as a ring.