"Of course, of course," mumbled Clave, keeping his eyes down. "My humblest apologies, my lady. I swear it shall never happen again!"
"Don't think you can talk your way out of this one, Clave. I want them done first thing this morning before your other work. First thing."
"Of course, my lady."
"Dentrong!" shouted the Keeper, moving down her list to the next name, ignoring Clave's response. He sighed, and his mind turned to below ground, where it was his twin brother's turn to spend the day. Where his life actually meant something other than cobwebs and dust and sweeping.
The Keeper finished her attendance check, and they were issued a breakfast of day old biscuits and overripe fruit before attending their duties around the Tower. At lunch there would be another check, then before dinner, another. With the limited time between security checks, he marveled at how any of his ancestors had managed to steal away beneath the trap door for any time at all on their own, especially without getting caught.
Today, Clave's duty was in the kitchen, scrubbing the grease from the deepest corners, checking for rats in the storage cupboards, and lugging bags of vegetables to their designated spaces.
"What're you looking at?" asked the chef as Clave passed, glancing at the quick cutting motions of the knife on meat, a sack of onions over his shoulder.
"Just curious," said Clave, "about how you prepare the food."
"Don't be, you've got no business peeking into my business, Clave. You're a hauler, and a cleaner, and nothing more. Already you can barely handle that! Ain't no use in learning something you can't handle, and I ain’t got the patience to teach you. Cooking takes work, you can’t just slack away at it."
So Clave inched away from the chef to stock the remainder of the goods. And when the chef accidentally dropped a cast iron pot to the floor, Clave jumped. The chef’s assistant smirked, and Clave quickly recovered after he realized what had caused the noise. Or rather, when he realized what had caused the floor to shake, and that it had not been tremors.
In the past, there had been others who had scoffed at Clave.
"Keep to your sweeping," the library attendant had said when he had tried to glance at the cover of her book. “There aren't any pictures in here for you to look at, Clave. It's all text, see? Nothing interesting for you."
And Clave had looked away, pretending not to be able to read the words on the page.
Or the stable boy, ten years younger than Clave, when Clave had asked how to ride.
"Lookee here, we've got a dreamer!" the boy had said. "No use in you riding, just clean the dung. Go on, clean it. That's all you're here for, Clave."
So Clave had looked away.
But every few nights, Clave and his brother switched positions, and Clave took his turn deep under the Tower.
And there, Clave could not afford to look away.
Chapter 8: Clave
"Wake up," hissed the voice, as a hand shook Clave from his sleep in the darkness. "Wake up!"
Clave's eyes shot open, not hindered by the usual drowsiness when he worked his duties; instead he was eager as he sat up in bed and felt the key pressed into his palm.
"Three days," said his brother. "Then back up here to switch."
"Of course, though that’s short this time."
"Go then, Clave! Go, while it's still dark."
"Of course, Clave," he answered. For a further degree of protection, and to ensure that neither one of them trip up and be discovered, their father had named them by the same name. Two Claves with one job, one identity, and one secret key.
Clave rushed through the darkness as his brother slipped into his bed, running down memorized hallways and ensuring that his feet made no sound upon the stone floor. At each fork he paused, counting to ten before hurrying on his way, making sure he did not hear the soft treading of Keepers, the nimble footsteps of servants, or the lumbering of guards.
As he descended his chances of being discovered lessened. The Keepers had no business on these levels, mainly consisting of storage closets and empty rooms, and even the servants would not have reason to descend that late at night. And there was nothing for the guards to guard—or so it seemed.
Rats scattered out of his path as he entered the final room and felt around for the handle of the trapdoor. The stone floor was different here, colder than the other levels, and slicker. His fingers slid smoothly across its polished surface until they found the clasp and inserted the key. He opened the door slowly, ensuring it would not creak, though he and his brother oiled it regularly—more regularly than any of their other duties. Despite their efforts, the oil seemed to wear away faster than it should from the metal, degrading quickly into sludge that dripped down below.
Sliding inside, he withdrew the key and closed the door above him, the soft click of the locking mechanism the loudest noise that he had made since leaving bed. Only then did Clave chance light, pulling a candle from his pocket and striking a match against the wall, his dirty fingers holding the illumination. Below, stairs spiraled. He would have said countless stairs, but after traversing them his entire life, he knew there to be exactly four less than four thousand of them, and it took him just over a half hour to descend since they became more slippery and moist toward the bottom.
And when he finally did reach it, he was met by a green glow through a low door frame, and he entered.
Clave's father had introduced him to the cavern at the bottom of the stairs before he died, and Clave still remembered his awe at his young age staring up at the enormous expanse, at the ceiling so high it appeared to disappear, at the softly glowing green stones that were inlaid into walls set at least a quarter mile apart, and at the vast pool at the center that his father had warned him never to enter, the water an inky black.
"This, son, is the Vault." His father had said, while Clave's mouth was still open, and his eyes were still wide. "While others have forgotten, we remember. While others have lowered their guard, we persevere. And while others have perished, we have lived on. Look, son, for this is your and your brother's purpose in the world- to protect, and to prevent. For we, the Eternal Guard, remember the times before the Keepers, and we remember the dark times before even then."
"And we shall never forget," whispered Clave, completing his father's sentence. "But why, Father, why is it called the Vault?"
"There are many possible answers to that question, Clave. Because it holds great knowledge, for one, knowledge that you and your brother will be able to study more than I ever have. And because it holds the water—water which must go every week to the cups on these walls, or else the tremors will begin. Son, that is why I believe it is called the Vault: because it holds that precious water at the center. Come, watch."
Then his father took a white pot that hung on the wall, and he walked toward the rippleless pool at the center and dipped the lip inside from the end of a four foot long stick. Even as the edge of the pod descended below the surface it disappeared from sight, erased by the blackness of the water. Taking the pot, he led Clave to the nearest wall, where a small stone cup jutted outward.
Behind the cup, carved deep into the stone, were letters—runes that stretched high above that Clave could hardly read, runes in a language that he could not understand. Around the runes there were intricate pictures, carved with such detail that they seemed alive. Pictures of a coiled serpent whose body was at least four times as tall as his own, that had human eyes instead of a snake's, and rows of wings along its back like a centipede had legs.
And while Clave stared, his father tilted the pot to fill the cup with the black liquid, where vapor steamed and condensed against the rock face, droplets penetrating into the crevices.
"This is your duty, Clave," said his father as they moved on to the next portion of the wall. "To fill the cups. For generations we have done it, and we will do it for generations more."
"But why?" Clave asked, his eyebrows furrowed as they moved on toward a third cup, with several still ahead.
<
br /> "Because if you don't," said his father, looking him in the eye, "if you don't, Clave, that will bring the tremors and worse. You asked me why this is called the Vault, Clave. It's because it holds the end of the world."
"There is much we do not know," Clave's father had said as they climbed the stairs back to the surface. "There is much knowledge that has been lost throughout the ages. Particularly when my great grandfather died unexpectedly, and my grandfather never learned the full extent of his father's knowledge."
"Then how did you figure all of this out?" Clave asked between heavy breaths of exertion from climbing.
"Oh, my grandfather still knew some things," Clave’s father answered. "He knew enough to continue his duty at the Vault, which is the most important piece, but there are parts missing. My father told me stories about ways that my great grandfather was able to alter the actions of the Keepers themselves, ways that he could change the sway of power in the Tower from the inside, and more. Stories that he chalked up to hyperbole."
"That doesn't make sense," Clave said. "No Keeper would listen to us, or take our advice on any matters."
"He made it seem like they didn't have a choice," his father answered, shrugging. "I suspect that my great grandfather had some way to blackmail the Keepers, or perhaps eliminate members of their ranks. But that secret has been lost to time, Clave, and perhaps for the better. It's best to avoid the Keepers when possible and let them bicker among themselves without becoming involved. It concerns us little, here beneath the Tower.”
Then they had reached the surface, and his father smiled on his two sons, knowing that they would do well. After his father's death, Clave and his brother had inherited the key as well as the duty of filling the cups, once per week. And they had done so every week.
Almost every week. They had, in fact, missed one shortly after their father's death.
"Clave!" the Keeper had shouted as he mopped a corner of the entrance hall and she spotted him in the shadow. "Clave! This is the last time. The last time that your duties have been shirked. Look at me, Clave. I don't care how stupid you are, there's enough brightness in you to sweep the floors! Today, one of the High Keepers almost fell after slipping on a pile of dust that you left unattended in the hallway. Had she fallen, I would have seen you executed myself!"
"Yes, miss," he said, not looking up, and concentrating on mopping. Today should have been his brother's day to be a servant and Clave's day to go to the Vault. But that morning his brother had returned sick, so sick he would be unable to complete his duties even to their family's reduced standards, so the tasks had fallen upon Clave.
"Yes, miss? Yes, miss?" the Keeper screeched, and clenched his ear in her fist, her nails digging into the skin as he yelped. "You're not getting off that easy this time, Clave. Oh no, it's time you learned a lesson - a hard lesson, so it penetrates that thick skull of yours and you learn to do your duties properly."
Then the Keeper dragged him forward by the ear, down a flight of steps, and threw him to the floor of the Tower guards' assembling room.
"You" she shouted, pointing to a guard that had been leaning against a table but now jumped to attention. "I want this one locked away on reduced rations. I want him in seclusion, for three weeks, with nothing to keep him company but a broom. And I want him sweeping from dawn to dusk, to be lashed if he stops!"
"Yes, miss," exclaimed the guard, leaping forward such that the fat under his armor jingled, taking Clave by the arm and slinging him down a corridor. "Right away, miss!"
The cell he threw Clave into was small, smaller than his already minuscule room, with no mattress and a hole in the corner for a crude toilet. Dull light trickled down from two stories above, light from the grating in the kitchen dish room floor where the other servants were busy cleaning the pots, pans, and plates from the night before. Water trickled down through the grates, which made his cell's ceiling, carrying the food particles with it and raining down upon Clave.
"Your reduced rations," smirked the guard from the doorway, pointing above to the falling scraps, "and your task." Then he tossed a broom in after him so that the handle hit Clave's head, before continuing. "When you stop sweeping, I start whipping. And from what I've heard of you, I whip a lot better than you sweep."
For the next twelve hours, Clave swept. Chunks of leftover dinner fell in his hair and splattered on his clothes, and every portion of his skin became cold and wet. And when the guard finally came to take the broom from him, blood running down his hands from the blisters that had formed against the broom handle, the kitchen crew above had also finished their tasks for the night. So Clave lay in the driest part of the food slop he could find, mounding up the more solid portions to serve as his bed.
And his heart stopped when he felt something poking his side from his pocket.
The key.
The key his brother should have, but did not since he had fallen sick, and now lay in their shared bed recovering. That Clave had taken because it was his turn to descend to the Vault, but instead had to perform servant duty.
The key that was the only way down to the Vault to fill the cups while Clave was in prison for the next three weeks. During that time his brother would have no way of knowing where or why Clave had disappeared, nor could he reveal himself, or it would seem Clave had escaped his cell.
"Oh Hells," he cursed. "Oh, no. Oh, no."
He shivered then, though not from the cold, or the wetness, but from his thoughts on the Vault below.
"No."
Chapter 9: Clave
Clave could tell the amount of days that had passed by the activity of the servants above. Twice a day they washed the dishes, and twice a day the remains of the meals rained down on Clave. And twice a day he made a notch in the handle of the broom, serving as a counter in case he forgot.
Six days passed without change. Clave awakened at dawn to begin sweeping, and rested at dusk, doing his best to sleep. But his eyes failed to close, his heart beat wildly, and never did he achieve sleep for more than an hour.
The seventh day arrived, the longest that Clave had gone without refilling the inky black water in the cups below. Then the eighth. And the ninth.
Perhaps it will be ok, he thought, rolling near sleep, his hands swollen with pus and blisters on the tenth day. Perhaps my father was wrong. Perhaps we are only servants, and the danger is passed. Or maybe it was never there, and we were wrong all along.
But then the eleventh day came.
And Clave felt a tremor.
At first he was not sure if it had been a tremor at all, but instead a heavier guard walking outside, or a particularly strong gust of wind hitting the Tower. It had lasted less than a second, a sudden jolt on the bare edge of perception. Maybe he had imagined it and it had not happened at all—maybe the days he had spent in the cell had made him delusional, and it was a hallucination.
On day twelve, the second tremor came.
He was sweeping when his legs slipped out from under him, finding no traction on the floor as the Tower shifted. Above in the dish room a stack of clean plates fell, shattering against the grate and hailing down porcelain on him. The door of his cell creaked on its hinges, though it remained intact, and the conversation of the guards picked up outside.
"Let me out!" Clave had screamed when they passed by, his face against the door. "I need to get out! Please!"
"Don't you worry," came the voice of the laughing guard in response. "Ain't nothing to be afraid of, and you're likely the safest one here, in your stone cage. Whole Tower comes down and you’ll be the only one to survive! I think I'll keep you there for your own good."
"You don't understand!" Clave shouted back. "It's not going to stop. We'll all die here!"
The door of his cell jerked open and Clave fell backward as the guard entered. With a crack the tip of the guard's whip found Clave's arm, and he yelped, scrambling backward as the guard reared back for a second strike that was now out of range.
"You listen here," sai
d the guard. "If you don't shut it, I'll personally make sure you die here. Got it?"
Clave nodded vigorously in the corner, looking up to the guard in case the whip was coming again. The guard clenched his square jaw, and frowned in distaste to the contents of the cell, his mustache twitching as he exhaled. Then he turned and left, his stomach brushing against the door frame on his way out, and he slammed the door shut behind him.
Day thirteen arrived, and the tremor came in the night. Clave was sleeping when he was bounced up from the ground, splashing down in a sitting position. For a full fifteen seconds the Tower shook, and the walls shrieked, and above, voices screamed. The ground lurched again, and he slammed into the wall, his nose bleeding from the impact and bright points of light dancing in his vision. The layers of slop beneath him shifted again and he fell, waves of dishwater running over his body as he failed to regain balance.
An hour later, as he curled on the floor and the Tower was still again, he heard a voice from above through the grates of the dish room.
"Clave!" came the hurried whisper, and he jerked awake. "Clave!"
"Here!" he croaked, looking upward and gasping as he saw his brother's face above him through the grates, illuminated by candle light.
"By the hells, it's you!" exclaimed his brother. "I've searched everywhere for you, Clave. Everywhere. And it's already begun, just as father warned us. Clave, I need the key. Hurry, I'm heading underground straight away. Please tell me you still have it, Clave, and that they did not take it."
"It's safe," said Clave. "Though you'll need to clean it. I have it here."
His brother fed a piece of thread through the grate, and unwound a spool, the end approaching Clave in the candlelight. Taking the key from his pocket, he tied it to the string, and his brother reeled it upward until it disappeared above.
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