The Ruins Book 4

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "It is hard to think about how many different places you must have foraged to get them."

  "In some of the earlier days, we took large risks. Sometimes, we went into buildings that were mostly collapsed, sifting through the rubble. The price of knowledge is never cheap. But knowledge leads to greater things, as you know."

  William nodded.

  "Let's get going," Amelia said.

  William followed her out of The Library Room and down the stairs. He looked out the windows into the cornfields, watching the windmills churn through an evening breeze that he missed as dearly as his friends.

  Passing one of the landings, he glanced over at Amelia's doorway. He looked away before he caught her attention. As they took another flight of stairs, William put a hand to his stomach, stifling a cough.

  "Are you okay, William?" Amelia asked, pausing with concern.

  "I'm fine," William said, continuing.

  "It sounds as if you are getting sick."

  "I'm okay," William said, putting on the happy smile that he'd practiced for weeks.

  "Some of us get illnesses as the summer season ends. Perhaps you should sleep a little later tomorrow," Amelia suggested. Reaching the landing to his floor, she opened the door to his quarters.

  "I'm sure I'll be fine," William said. "I don't want to miss a lesson."

  Chapter 27: Bray

  Bray cracked his neck under the morning sun, tossing a piece of corn into his wagon.

  Loud chatter drew his attention to the end of the row, where two guards moved faster than usual, striding in the direction of the forest. A moment later, a few more passed, accompanied by Rudyard. Grabbing his wagon, Bray wheeled it down the row and stopped at the edge of the dirt path, where he could get a clearer view.

  Deep in other rows, slaves pulled fresh ears from tall stalks. A few looked over as they saw something more interesting than a wagon full of crops. Bray waited until they looked away before he peered after the guards and Rudyard, toward the forest.

  A few of the men called the Yatari engaged in conversation with Rudyard and his guards at the head of the path. They held large bags in their hands. The Yatari spoke with animated expressions, raising their shoulders and arching their backs. Rudyard said something. A moment later, a Yatari that might've been a leader let one hand off of his bag to motion over the wall at New City, waving his hands angrily.

  A few interested demons crept to the edges of the path.

  Rudyard pointed at them, making a show of power.

  The Yatari handed the bags to Rudyard and the Head Guards, who started back down the path, toward the gate. Bray ducked back into the row, waiting for Rudyard and his guards to pass. When they were gone, he saw the Yatari standing, waiting.

  Maybe their discontent was something he could use.

  Bray crept through the dirt rows of corn, cutting between the stalks, avoiding the eyes of slaves and demons as he worked his way toward where they stood. Many of the other slaves had wandered away, probably afraid to get too close to a cluster of guards, and Rudyard.

  Or they were afraid of the demons, who kept everyone in check.

  Soon he was near the end of an aisle beside the Yatari. All wore loose, white garments, with boots that seemed slightly shorter than what he normally saw in the woods. Necklaces made of strange, multi-colored rocks and shells hugged their necks. One man wore a hat made of a thin fabric, cocked to the side, covering a shock of thick hair. They spoke in strange accents, muttering, or perhaps arguing. Bray couldn't hear much, but every now and then, he picked up a familiar word.

  They stood in a tight group, shaking their heads in disgust.

  They were clearly upset.

  Bray set down his wagon, feigning work as he watched them. A few turned their heads as they eyed the demons skulking through the crops, clearly uneasy. One drew a flask from his side, sipping nervously. Bray looked down the front of the path, near the gate. A few guards ambled about, yelling at slaves, but Rudyard and his posse had disappeared. It seemed as if they were behind the gate, getting whatever goods they meant to trade.

  None returned.

  Yet.

  Catching the eye of one of the Yatari, who stood at the rear of the group, Bray made a show of glancing up at the sun, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  "Another hot day," Bray said, only loudly enough that the man could hear.

  The man shifted uncomfortably, but he didn't respond. The other Yatari kept their focus in the direction of New City. Bray's eyes roved over the man's necklace. What he'd thought were rocks or shells were actually bones, or teeth. Seeing them, he recalled the Semposi, pulling settlers from the forest and using them for trades, or other purposes the gods only knew. But these teeth were too battered, too yellowed, even for settlers or barbarians. Most were chipped.

  Taking a guess, Bray asked, "Are those Plagued Ones' teeth?"

  The Yatari man shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his pack. Feeling the weight of Bray's unanswered question, he nodded.

  "I used to slay them," Bray said, spitting on the ground.

  The Yatari man's friends gave him warning stares as the Yatari man nodded again.

  Bray smiled. "They are vile creatures. I might be forced to live among them, but I'd rather they were at the end of my sword. At least you have found some use for them."

  The man refocused on the path in front of him. Bray was the property of another, bound by death and punishment. Of course, they wouldn't speak to him.

  "I've killed over a thousand of them in my lifetime," Bray said, trying to hide some of the frustration in his voice. "Though that doesn't help me much here."

  He was surprised when the man answered in the same strange accent Bray had overheard. "The necklaces scare away the barbarian tribes. They help us avoid danger."

  Bray nodded. With a knowing smile, he said, "A good idea. I wish I had thought of that myself."

  The Yatari man seemed pleased at the compliment as he scratched his tan face.

  Making a show of wiping away his sweat, Bray said, "It seems you are a bit more used to the temperatures than I am. I'm from up north. It was much nicer when I had more trees to hide behind. And a sword to slay the nagging beasts." He looked sideways, where a demon lurked between some stalks, watching them.

  "I don't envy your work," the Yatari man said sympathetically, before looking away once again.

  Bray leaned around the last corn stalk, checking for Rudyard and the guards. Deep in the distance, some guards chastised one of the slower slaves pulling a wagon toward the path, but no one else approached.

  The Yatari man lifted his flask to his mouth again, taking another sip.

  "That wouldn't happen to be snowberry, would it?" Bray grinned, recapturing the man's attention.

  "Snowberry?" the man asked. "I'm not sure what that is."

  "That's what we drank in the taverns where I'm from." Bray shook his head. "I couldn't tell you the last time I had it."

  The Yatari examined his flask, as if he wasn't used to getting a question about it. "It's Gutrot," he said finally.

  "I'd kill for something other than lukewarm piss-water," Bray lamented.

  Pity crossed the Yatari man's face as he looked at his flask.

  "Not a good idea," one of his friends grumbled. "They don't want us talking with them."

  Those words seemed to stir something in the Yatari man, whose eyes flashed a moment of anger. Putting his anger into a step, the man strode into the corn to talk with Bray. "Fuck them."

  He handed Bray his flask.

  The other Yatari shook their heads, clearly nervous. They kept their eyes focused on the path, making it clear they didn't agree with the first man's actions. Bray tilted back the flask, swallowing a sip of the beverage. It was bitter and had a strange aftertaste, but it warmed his stomach.

  "Thanks," Bray said gratefully, handing back the flask. "What's your name?"

  "Xavier," the man said, with a quick nod.

  "You live by the ocean?"
Bray said, remembering some information he'd heard.

  Xavier studied him, surprised. "You know of us?"

  "Only what I've heard from here," Bray said. "As I said, my people came from up north."

  "What is the name of your people?"

  "We don't have a name," Bray said, thinking about it. "But we're from a town called Brighton."

  "Brighton?" Xavier asked, clearly intrigued.

  "It is a township many days walk from here. We were a ways from home, traveling, when the Semposi chased us," Bray said. "The Gifted captured us not long after. Now we are slaves."

  Xavier shook his head, as more pity crossed his eyes.

  "I heard your people have boats," Bray said. "One of my friends used to sail the ocean."

  Xavier looked over at his friends, a few of whom had been casually listening, and were now eavesdropping closer. "What types of boat did your friend have?"

  "She had several. I don't know the names, but they were large," Bray said, making a grand show with his hands. "A storm ravaged them. Most have turned to wreckage." He frowned as he thought on it. "Although, a few parts could probably be salvaged, if someone had the right knowledge."

  Looking back at his friends, Xavier asked, "Do you know where these wreckages are?"

  Noting the curiosity on Xavier's face, Bray said, "I suppose I could remember. They landed where my friend traveled, a long way from here. I will warn you, it is not a short trip."

  Xavier traded another look with his friends. "Still, that information would be worth something to us."

  "I would accept a gift, if I was allowed," Bray said with a grunt, looking down at his wagon. "But the guards would beat me if they found something I wasn't supposed to have."

  Another flash of anger sparked in Xavier's eyes. "Perhaps another drink, then."

  "Thank you, friend," Bray said, as he accepted the flask and took another long swig. Making a show of pondering something, he said, "Perhaps there is something you can help me with."

  Xavier's reluctance returned.

  "I traveled with a few other friends, before I came here," Bray lied, shaking his head. "They went in another direction. I was hoping for some assurance that they were alive."

  Xavier looked carefully around. "There are many people in the forest," he said evasively.

  "Of course. I was hoping if I described them, you might have some information."

  "What do they look like?"

  "One was portly, with a large mustache. The other had a beard that came to his waist," Bray lied. "My hope was that they ended up in a place better than this."

  "I have not seen them," Xavier said. "Which direction did they head, and when did you last see them?"

  "They headed east, a few weeks ago," Bray said. "We were split up."

  Xavier chewed his lip. He seemed as if he was torn between answers. Or perhaps he had figured out Bray's motive. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "If your friends went west or south, they might have become a meal. But if they headed east, between the mountains, they would have found a path free from The Plagued Ones. There is less game for them to hunt."

  "Over there?" Bray asked, nodding discreetly over the field of corn and in the direction of two distant bumps on the horizon.

  Xavier nodded. "Not as many animals lurk there. The Plagued Ones in this city like to hunt in the north, or to the west."

  "How far is the pass?"

  "Less than half a morning's walk." Xavier flashed a cautious glance. "It is the path we take when we come to trade. It is safe from The Plagued Ones." Carefully, he added, "If your friends made it that far, they might be safe."

  The Yatari nodded, watching Bray expectantly.

  "Thank you for the reassurance," Bray said to them. "Now, I owe you some directions."

  Chapter 28: William

  Pillowy, circling clouds covered some of the morning sunshine as it filtered into William's room, casting stripes of light over the floor.

  William sat at the edge of his bed, listening to Amelia's footsteps getting closer. He started in on the hacking cough he'd practiced several times since she'd left the night before. The noise echoed across the room, bounced off the walls, and hopefully made its way out in the hallway. He heard Amelia pause before she knocked.

  "William? Are you all right?"

  He waited a moment before responding, "Yes. Come in."

  Amelia peeked in on him with concern. William kept to the edge of the bed, holding his raw, red throat, irritated from his forced coughs.

  "You don't sound any better than last night," she observed.

  "I don't feel too bad," he said, making a face that showed otherwise. "I am ready to head upstairs."

  Amelia didn't seem certain, but she didn't say anything as William slowly got off the bed, accompanying her to the doorway. Pulling in a heavy breath, he let out another brutal hack. This time Amelia stopped, shielding her face.

  More worry overtook her expression. "It sounds as if you might be getting a sickness. Those types of illnesses are easily spread to the rest of us."

  "Spread?" William asked. "Sicknesses are a will of the gods, aren't they?"

  "The gods." Amelia laughed. "That is not the way sicknesses work. Humans get them first, and spread their illnesses to us. If we are together in the same room, more of us are apt to get sick. It might be a little easier for you to recover, because you are younger, but severe illnesses are a worry for us older Gifted. Our brains might be intelligent, but our bodies are still susceptible." Taking a step away from him, she said, "It is probably better if you rest a little while today, away from the others."

  William made a show of his disappointment. "I was looking forward to writing more letters today."

  "There will be plenty of time for that later," Amelia said, putting a hand over her mouth. "I will have breakfast sent to you here by the guards."

  William held his stomach.

  "Are you feeling sick to your stomach, as well?"

  He nodded.

  "Probably an effect of your illness. Maybe you should skip breakfast. I will have the guards bring up lunch, when they come back with our second trip for dessert."

  William put on a disappointed face.

  "You need your rest, to recover," Amelia said. "You should try to sleep."

  William nodded, maintaining his dejected expression as she opened the door and walked out. Before she left, he forced his way through one more loud, sidesplitting cough. He saw her wincing as she shut the door.

  And then William was alone.

  William listened to Amelia's footsteps as she treaded up the same stairs, presumably going to The Library Room. For a while, doors opened in the floors above and below, as more of The Gifted headed to the eighteenth floor. A few conversed quietly. And then the building fell preternaturally quiet.

  William waited a long while, until after he heard the guards bringing breakfast to The Gifted.

  Only when they returned to the ground floor did he get off the bed.

  William tiptoed to the doorway, listening, before retrieving the hairpin from beneath his bureau. Turning it in his hand, he swallowed. It had been weeks since he'd held it, and just as long since he'd considered using it.

  He was deathly afraid he might kill his friends with a mistake.

  But they might die, regardless. And if they did, he would never forgive himself for his inaction.

  Swallowing a nervousness that he feared would accompany him forever, William crept to the door and unlocked it.

  Chapter 29: Kirby

  Kirby balanced a piece of sheet metal on the workbench, picking up her shears. Nearby, Rosita completed a cut, tossing her finished piece into a stack. The pile of finished sheets they'd started this morning had grown to almost twice its size. A few times, other slaves entered the shops under the guards' direction, taking away the completed piles. But there was plenty of time in between.

  That was the time in which Kirby was interested.

  Cutting the sheet in front o
f her, Kirby forced her way through a stubborn piece. Each sheet seemed to vary in condition. Every so often, she saw a sheet that contained some stain or smell she couldn't identify. Most smelled of the decrepit buildings of which they'd once been a part, while others contained a hint of animal dung. One or two contained the crusted, dried skin of a carcass.

  "The traders don't always clean the metal, before we get it," Rosita explained, nodding as she saw Kirby picking at a stubborn brown spot with her gloves. "We've seen all types of things on them."

  "I believe it," Kirby muttered.

  "One time, we found one with what must've been a skull's worth of blood, stained on the side," Rosita said. "Another time we got a batch that smelled like The Plagued Ones. I think the whole shop smelled that day." A thin smile crossed her face.

  A loud, rhythmic clanging echoed across the room, interrupting Rosita's conversation. Kirby looked over to find a dirty slave working a small piece of metal through a machine. Rosita returned to her work. The workers in the machine shops talked less, unable to compete with the constant sounds of the workers around them. Occasionally, a guard poked his head in, asking a question or making a demand, but otherwise the din was constant.

  Kirby noticed the guards mostly stayed out of the building, so they could talk and share jokes away from the noise of the shop.

  Finished with a long cut, she pulled a finger-width scrap from the end of the sheet and carried it over to the scrap bin. Peering in, she saw a growing pile that the slaves hadn't carted away. She looked over her shoulder, watching the guards chat away.

  Kirby set the metal in with the others.

  She overruled a dangerous impulse.

  It was too soon.

  A loud laugh drew her attention to the doorway.

  A lumbering form stood among the other guards. A bitter taste filled Kirby's mouth as she saw Ollie, holding up his hands in some lewd gesture. He glanced over, meeting her eyes. She quickly averted them. The memory of his stinking, sour breath and his roaming hands came rushing back. Her pulse pounded. He might come inside when he was through talking, pulling her away from her task.

  The moment she feared might be closer than she knew.