For Orien to be truly great, all cities must stand together. If any group can be viewed as subhuman, it is Rex itself, but not for any reason of race. It is their ideology. They know no peace, and bring only pain and hatred to others. They have rejected empathy and rejected survival. They have become their own destruction.
In the here and now, Laura couldn’t condense all of that into something simple beyond, “They’re scary.”
“They are. It makes me doubt they’d die so easily,” said Okane.
By now they’d reached the Sweeper shop. The windows were dark; as hoped, the MacDanels hadn’t arrived yet this morning. Laura unlocked the door and gathered the mail, tossed the paper down and sifted through the envelopes.
Over half were addressed to “Head Sweeper Laura Kramer,” from various Sweeper guilds. The Vir contact had actually written it in capital letters. It made a lump form in her throat. In the short time she’d been head Sweeper she’d sent letters out to all of them after pawing through every newspaper she could get her hands on to determine how each city stood. The letters had been specially tailored. She’d been proud of them. She hadn’t gotten to read a single reply since being booted from the position. Anything labeled “Head Sweeper” was for Juliana. God, there was even one from Coronae. She wanted more than anything to open it. Her fingers held tight enough to crinkle the return address, but she forced herself to discard it. She searched through the rest, and was discouraged to find absolutely nothing from Puer, to “Head Sweeper” or otherwise.
Meanwhile, Okane had pulled the newspaper closer and now studied the Rex article, brow furrowed. A long lock of hair slipped into his face. His eyes remained fixed on the print, but he gave a puff of air. The lock buffeted some before sliding still further into his vision.
“Your ponytail’s loose,” she pointed out.
“I’m aware.”
He seemed dead set on reading his way through the article’s entirety, which would take a while. Laura sighed.
“Can I braid your hair?”
“What?” He blinked at her.
“Braid.”
Okane jerked his head in a nod and turned back slightly, not enough to let her leave his sight, but enough that she had easy access to his hair. She gathered it up and combed her fingers through. She encountered snarls and tugged lightly to work them out. He winced.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Laura studied the hair in her hands as she worked out the knots and separated it into three parts. As she began braiding, she asked, “I’ve been wondering, why do you keep this so long? It’s not exactly uncommon, but—Is it a Magi thing? Clae’s letter was about Magi, right?”
“It was. I don’t know anything about Magi fashion, though,” said Okane. “I just feel better with it. My hair is the one thing Sullivan never got interested in. It was the only thing I had full control over. I’m still a little loath to let go of it.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” said Laura. “I was just curious. What about the ‘you’ thing? Did Clae’s letter mention that?”
“The what?” Okane questioned, tilting his head to see her better.
“You know, why you don’t say it. Clae said something about it being your magic, but isn’t that a waste? Why that of all things?”
“We can say it, just a different way,” said Okane.
“But physically?”
“I’ve never tried. I never felt the need to. Mama said the word is stronger this way. More … more personal.” He dropped off into silence. Laura hummed to show she got the idea, pinching the end of the braid with one hand while she dug into her pocket for a spare hair tie. Okane’s hair twisted as he turned his head again to blink at her. She met his eyes, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t.
Realization crossed his face, and his brow furrowed. “- - -’re not listening to it.”
Had he been saying “you” without her notice? “Once I knew about it I started paying more attention, and now I just don’t hear it at all.”
Okane changed direction to face her fully.
“(You).”
His mouth didn’t move, but the word rang in Laura’s ears. It was strong, loud, authoritative and direct, with a timbre that reverberated in her core. She inhaled sharply.
“What the—”
“Sorry.” Okane leaned back again, concentration melting into surprise and some shame. “I was afraid - - -’d ignore it otherwise.”
“What did you do?”
“I focused. I suppose it was kind of like yelling?”
“You yelled at me?”
“I wanted - - - to hear it.”
“I definitely heard it.” Laura put a hand over her heart, still unsettled.
“Sorry,” he repeated. “But do - - - get what I mean? How it’s personal? Special?”
When he put it that way, she supposed it did feel kind of special. Some weird emotional power directed entirely at her.
“I think?”
“Mama said it was genuine. People treasured it, from what I remember. The emphasis gives respect and sincerity. It’s the sound of honesty. It’s impossible to lie through the implication.”
After a moment of hesitation she took up his hair again, sighing, “I wish there was a tip-off like that in regular speech. I’d love to know for sure what Juliana’s thinking.”
Of course, the MacDanels came in at this exact moment. Luckily they were already talking, so they didn’t catch Laura’s comment.
“We’ve got reports from the Council,” Juliana said, stumbling in with five massive books. “I’ll tell you all ab—oh, what have we here? I hope we haven’t interrupted?”
“- - - haven’t,” said Okane.
“We’re just discussing new ways to keep his hair out of his face,” said Laura. “What were you saying?”
“Just more dealings with the Council.” She set the books down, and Lester pulled one aside and opened it. It wasn’t a book at all but handwritten notes, and Laura found herself gaping. Had Juliana written all of that? “We’ve finally got them to agree to raise the Sweeper budget.”
“You don’t sound happy with that,” said Laura.
Juliana grimaced. “It’s something, but they’re not raising it by much. The way I see it, we have to double the budget or we’ll fail. There’s barely enough to pay all four of us as is. They’re raising it by … how did you put it, Lester?”
“One-twenty-fifth,” said Lester. “Something like zero point zero four percent.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Laura, finally tying off the braid.
“They seem to think it’s perfectly reasonable,” said Juliana, shaking her head. “Every time I try to tell them it’s madness, they come back saying ‘the Sinclairs managed it like this,’ and I keep having to tell them—god, it sounds so heartless—that their refusal to help strangled Clae Sinclair, and if he had the proper resources we’d never have this mess to start with. In the interview they were excited about what I had to say, but when it came to implementing ideas they shot everything down. Literally none of them had anything good to say about Sinclair beyond ‘he could work on a limited budget.’ And you know the worst of it? They kept addressing all their questions to him!”
She gestured violently at Lester.
“Seriously?” said Laura.
“Every time I said something, they replied to him, too,” said Juliana, voice gradually rising. “It was like I wasn’t even there. What do they think I am, a puppet? I can speak for myself! He’s not the brains behind this! I’m the head Sweeper here! I got the interview! I’m the one they hired! I deserve this!”
“We know that,” said Lester. “You’re in charge.”
Juliana had been working herself into a frenzy, but at his words she paused.
“Yes,” she said distantly. “I’m in charge.”
She slowly deflated, and while the redness didn’t totally leave her face, it receded to a healthy flush.
“Do you hav
e another plan?” Laura asked hesitantly. “We can tell you as much as we know about how we worked in here, but budget—”
“I’m hoping to get information from the police about previous exterminations,” said Juliana. “An idea of how much equipment was used, damages, lives taken, anything I can build into a graph and put prices on. That way I can slap those councilmen in the face with hard facts.”
Laura might not have trusted her with the Sinclair secret, but she wanted the Sweepers to succeed just as badly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Could you call the police department and set up a meeting for me with their records department? The sooner the better.”
“Of course.” Laura sprang up to do so.
“Actually.” Juliana paused, drummed her fingers against her chin. “Before you call, fill me in on something. What’s the likelihood of the police seizing Gin from the mobsters here?”
“None,” Okane said immediately.
Juliana scowled. “You answered that fast.”
“Messing with mobsters even on their more obvious operations is a bad idea,” he said. “It’s what brought Sullivan down, and he just had a disagreement over prices. Actively sabotaging one of their vital businesses isn’t something they’ll take quietly. It’s not worth the backlash.”
“We can’t mess with the mobs, but the police—”
“The police and Council still aren’t over the MARU incidents,” said Okane. “They’ll talk big, but they won’t lift a finger. I don’t know everything about Amicae, but I do know mobs. Trust me on this one.”
“We need Gin from somewhere,” said Juliana. “What about the sunk Pits? You mentioned them the day we arrived. Do we have Gin around those?”
Okane recoiled. “Those are sunk for a reason, and they’re not city property. They’re private Sinclair property.”
“All the better! And the Gin?”
“Will not be moved.”
The conversation echoed one Clae had with Henry Sullivan, what seemed an eternity ago. But Sullivan always denied the existence of infestations and therefore the Pits’ function; for any Sweeper, let alone the head Sweeper, to speak so lightly of this fragile defense made Laura uneasy.
“I’d think the fact that these Pits have sunk makes it all the more important for their Gin to stay as is,” said Laura. “They’re not otherwise accessible. We can’t monitor them. We can’t stop any infestations that would take root there. It would be like arming a bomb.”
Okane nodded. “Take the Gin away, and we’d end up with another, more deadly version of the Falling Infestation.”
The incident had been officially named such, as of that morning.
Juliana made an aggravated noise. “We have to make our equipment stronger! If a few things need to be sacrificed—”
“Remember what you’re sacrificing, here,” Laura snapped.
Juliana looked ready to snap right back. Lester hurriedly stepped in.
“This Council meeting is just the first of many. Once you have the facts, we’ll be able to convince them to see reason,” he said. “We could even bring in other Sweepers to back us up. Melody could—”
“I’m not giving that woman a word edgewise,” Juliana spat. She only realized her vehemence after saying this, and visibly tried to calm herself. “Sorry. I never got along well with Melody. Girlish fights, you know.”
Laura raised a brow in disbelief.
“I need to clear my head,” said Juliana. “Lester, come with me. Show me where you got those sodas. I could use a refreshment.”
She left the shop without waiting for an answer.
“The meeting was that bad?” Okane whispered.
“Very bad,” Lester sighed. He shifted through his stack of papers before gingerly lifting a package from their midst. “I’ll step out with her, but before I forget, I wanted to give you this. I got a candle for Eliza, and the store had these ready for you. I thought I’d save you the trip.”
“Oh!” Laura took the package, just as delicately. “I didn’t think they’d be ready yet. Was the store busy?”
“Exceedingly so.” Lester glanced at the windows. “I should get going. Sorry for the commotion.”
As the door closed again, Laura and Okane shared a troubled look.
“Should we be worried?” said Okane.
“Only if she decides to act on her own,” said Laura. “I mean, she had some reasoning in there. She knew she couldn’t take on the mobs herself. At the very least, she’d talk to us about whatever she’s planning, right?”
Okane didn’t look convinced, but didn’t seem interested in pursuing the argument either. His gaze dropped to the package. “What is that, by the way?”
“Candles, of course. One of them is for you.”
She sat down and gingerly pulled the item out of her bag. It was a long taper candle, sea green with dapples of brighter blue. Okane accepted it with reverence, but still looked confused. He’d probably understand if he saw hers, so she drew that one out too. It was pale brown like a dusty coat, flecked with shining yellow. Two words were emblazoned in black along its length.
“‘Clae Sinclair,’” Okane read aloud, and gave her a perplexed look. “Is this to serve as his gravestone?”
“Sort of? It’s traditional in Spiritualist churches to light a candle or incense for loved ones who’ve passed on. During Underyear, people buy special candles and light them at home, in memory of their family and friends. Light them when it gets dark, and let them burn all the way through till morning. I heard it began with the infestations. Since monsters don’t leave bodies, people wouldn’t know if someone was alive or not. They lit candles hoping loved ones would see the light and follow it out of the darkness.”
Okane turned the candle over in his hands, studying the color. “This one doesn’t have a name.”
“I didn’t know what to put on it,” she admitted.
“Is it meant to represent multiple people?”
“No, it—It’s for your mother.”
His fingers stilled. “Mama?”
“You talked about her before. Was it—Should I not have?”
Okane didn’t respond immediately. He blinked furiously. “It’s a nice color. She would’ve liked it, I think.”
Laura exhaled her nerves. “I’m glad.”
“Thank - - -.”
7
WINTER JAMBOREE
Trumpets and flutes had been blaring since 4:00 A.M. Being off the beaten path, the Cynder Block escaped most of the din of December 21. A loud crescendo of brass startled Laura awake around 4:45, but otherwise the festivities remained a distant echo. Now, in the midst of the party at 10:30 A.M., the noise was deafening.
The Tiber Circuit held twice as many people as usual—spilling into the road, as cars had been banned from this street today. The drab, muted colors of everyday fashion had morphed into blazing hues in fanciful form. A woman nearby cavorted in a ragged dress of red and purple, gold bells stitched along patched sleeves and jangling at her ankles so she created a racket of her own with every movement. Underyear being a time of strange and vivid fashion, no one gave her a second glance.
Cheryl had bells, though not as many. Hers were sewn onto the fabric belt around her waist, a bright green matching the rest of her dress so she looked like a little forest spirit. That dress was one of Morgan’s labors of love many years ago; Laura had worn it when she was little, too. Now she and Morgan wore dresses in shimmering gold fabric, with multicolored patterns down the front in mimicry of stained-glass windows. Laura’s dress smelled of mothballs, and the stitched back bunched weirdly; these were given to her mother and Morgan before Cheryl was even born, and Morgan dug them out for every Underyear celebration.
Gold décor draped from the buildings along the Tiber Circuit, mingling with red ribbons and electric candles above the heads of vendor stalls, which stood flush against the buildings with room between them left only for the doors of businesses. The vendors sold candles, charm
s, celebratory figures, and knickknacks, but mostly food. The smell of fried and baked delicacies wafted in the air above them, and Laura mentally counted through the contents of her coin purse. She planned to drop money on the ever-popular kinral on a stick.
“Cheryl, stay close,” Morgan chided, reeling her daughter in. “Let’s look at all of it before you buy something. Maybe there’s something better up ahead!”
“And we’re supposed to meet Okane,” Laura reminded them. She’d arranged to meet Okane by the stand with the shooting game, but while she saw a gaggle of preteens squealing over mock rifles up ahead, she didn’t see him. “He should be around here somewhere.”
“Maybe he’s looking for a signal?” Morgan suggested. “It’s hard to pick out anyone like this.”
That was true. Laura couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd, which put a bit of a damper on her vision.
“I should’ve been more specific,” she muttered.
Morgan leaned down, using both hands now to grab Cheryl’s arm. “Honey, didn’t I just say not to run off?”
“But he’s right there!” Cheryl pointed.
Okane was in the clock shop just to the side of the game stall. The shop’s windows, normally huge and bright with Seeley’s Sellers of Clocks, Watches, and Timekeepers painted across the panes, were mostly obscured by a vendor’s banners. Through a gap between stall and banner, Laura spotted her coworker turning over a small clock in his hands, glancing up every so often to check the outside. She waved furiously. To her relief this caught his attention. He left the shop and made his way to them. The whole way he recoiled from the raucous crowd. He had no Underyear garb of his own save for a thick sash belted around his waist, bearing a multitude of coin decorations that clanged as he walked; otherwise he wore his everyday clothes, even if he sported the brightest of his kin-treated vests.
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