by Cat Hellisen
There’s hardly more than a grain or two of scriv powder in a bitter - least-wise, not in Hob-bitter - but it’s enough that I can feel it prickling my skin. The rush shivers over me. I close my eyes for a moment an remember why it is I came here in the first place. “They caught a bat down the Wend, was still feeding when they found it.” I stick my tongue in the creamy foam.
We all knew there was a feral vamp somewhere, drinking the little Hoblings dry. All those small corpses, paled an empty, turning up on the Wend-side heaps while the mothers cried an sobbed so hard that even we packs didn’t bother them none.
First time in a long while there’s been a vamp breaking MallenIve law and feeding off’ve anything more than a knacker yard nilly. Don’t think no one believed it at first, but there’s no explaining those bite marks away. I saw one of the bodies – found it, in fact, an had to chase the jackals away from their feasting. It was still easy enough to see where the bat had gone an torn the poor mite’s throat out.
Still an all, it took the sharif long enough to go after the damn thing. Typical of them police-bastards. Course it was only so long before the bat moved on to better feeding grounds an got the Gris-damned Lammers involved. The Hob-council had to send sharif packs in to hunt it down before things got worse.
I heard Marlon said they took so long ‘cause no-one believed a bat would be dumb enough to start hunting here, so close to MallenIve. Once, long ago, when I was still playing second to that damn Hob, Marlon told me there’s tame bats in MallenIve proper, but I don’t believe a word that bastard says no more.
Vampires are lower even than street dogs, an there’s no way I’m gonna believe that MallenIve’s Lams let them walk the street just like they was people. Not when the buggers drink blood an all that crap. Besides, Marlon will tell anyone anything long as he has their attention.
“They gonna burn it?” Oncle says an he tears his attention from his pint to peer side-long at me.
“Looks like. They’re setting up a stake on Lander’s.” I drink a little more, letting the scriv settle strong in my veins. I feel like I could take on Marlon’s Wend pack with one hand tied an smash that shite bastard down into the ground so hard he won’t see straight for a month. Ah now, there’s a dream to relish. “Was thinking you might want to go see it.”
“Hmm.” Oncle drains the last of his bitter. “Drink up smart, before we go an miss the whole deal.”
Looks like it’s a good day for me – a free drink an a bit of entertainment. It’s the best day I had since Prue died, anyway. I drink quick even though I’ve no head for scriv an follow Oncle out into the last of the sunshine, my mind wobbly an too big for my skull.
By the time we reach Lander’s Common, the sharif have already built a pyramid stake; black saplings stripped bare an lashed into place with scraps of red silk ribbon. A crowd is gathering – word spreads fast down our way - an the working-ladies have even come out from their dark rooms in their thin slips an petticoats.
We’re all waiting; burned darkest brown by the desert sun, eyes squinted, sharp ears ready. As usual down our way, everyone looks too thin an tired; the Wend Hoblings with their pot bellies an their woeful faces, my own pack lean and sharp. Even the older Hobs are hunger-stunted, kept like this by the damned Lammers.
I keep a sharp eye for Marlon or any of his scavs, but a few of my own see me an nod; let me know it’s all clear - that Marlon’s keeping to his side of the common. Good. Last thing I need is an out an out war twixt the two of us. Best we just keep skirting each other, the way the blasted magicless Mekekana in their iron ships do with the Lammers.
I’m a good head taller than most Hobs but I still want a decent view, so me an Oncle push through right to the front where the sharif have the bat tight in iron. Those chains must burn the fucker’s skin something awful. The sharif hold the ends of the chains, hands carefully bound in leather strips so that the iron don’t touch them.
I’m right near the front now. The bat is close to my height; just a little taller than the sharif around it. It’s frightened, crying gobbets of blood. It looks almost like a Hob, only white as chalk dust and the skin on its face already blistering in the late noon sun. Damn thing’s not like I was expecting. I thought it would look like a beast, all hungry-like, but it’s thin and shaking, an its black hair hangs in its face like it were trying to hide.
“Well now, would you look at that,” says Oncle. “It’s not even full grown.”
It does look young, but then I’ve never seen one up close-like, so I take Oncle’s word on it. Best I can tell is that it’s not all that much younger than me - may be just seen its sixteenth year. Then again - with bats, who knows right anyway?
The nearest sharif strikes it across the face with a length of iron chain, an the crowd whistles. The bat raises its white face. It’s stopped crying. May be that it realises how useless its tears are here. Instead it shivers; shivers so hard I think it’s gonna shiver right out of its skin. You never think of them wearing clothes an boots - they’re just tales to scare children - but the bat is in a neat suit; a worn one with the knees darned an the sleeves an trousers too short. The bat’s white ankles an bony wrists are on display, an there’re red weals where the iron touched it.
The beer sits strange in my belly. I’ve done a bit of work with Oncle’s pick before, an I know just how much iron hurts. I almost feel kinda bad for the damn bat.
“Please,” it says when the sharif light their torches. We fall back a little from the heat.
The crowd goes still, an the bat knows. I can see on its face it understands - there’s no-one gonna feel sorry for it, child or no. It killed their babes an it understands that much at least. We Hobs don’t take kind to those that hurt our own. It tries to curl into a ball, but the sharif just kick it an drag it up to the stake, pulling the chains tight.
It’s gibbering now, calling for its mam. But all we do is watch as the torches are put to the dry grass an kindle-sticks.
Black smoke an screams pour over Lander’s Common, an tonight they’ll be getting high down on the Wend. Celebrating. The air smells of wood ash an pork, almost heavy enough to drown out the reeking shite stench from the Lam-heaps. The winds turn, blow the smell up the hillside to where MallenIve proper squats with its spires an gables. I hope the fuckers up there choke on it. This far from the city, I can just make out the nearest of the seven thin bell towers the Lams call the Widows.
“A bat that young, means it’ll have a dam out there,” Oncle says, as the fire light bounces across the faces of the crowd. “Stupid bint, letting its young go off hunting like that.” He shakes his head. “Come on, Jek, we’d best leave ‘fore the crowd turns ugly.”
He’s in a rush to get home. This last week he hasn’t wanted to spend much time in the house. Fair enough – neither have I. It’s too damned empty, for starters.
* * *
We trip through the Digs, taking the long route back to ours. It’s best I don’t cut through Marlon’s territory, even though he’s probably up on the Common, spitting in the ashes. He runs Wend with an iron hand, an he’ll burn anyone what crosses him. Far as he thinks, the Wend brats are his own to do with what he wants. He’s not the forgiving sort neither, an he took my move to running the Digs pack like a slap to the face.
The Digs are quiet, the little sandy roads bare. No sign of anyone ‘fore we turn up the low hill to where Oncle’s hut leans in the shade of a cone-tree.
Most of the houses down this way are built of whatever junk we can get off the Lam-filth heaps - the crap that the Lammers cart here, as far from their precious city as possible. But Oncle’s a dab hand with stone an bone, so his hut, while it might be all stolen planks an broken brick, is one of the biggest – two rooms; one for us, one for the pig. The old scrounger raises his snout when we come in. He’s been rooting in the filth an his whiskered face is red with mud.
I stop to give the pig a scratch behind his hairy ears, making him grunt an rub his head ‘gainst my leg, le
aving a smear of spit. Pig-kisses. The pig is long past his killing-day, an though Oncle says nothing, I know he’s keeping the old bugger alive a bit longer because of Prue. Every year, it’s the same thing. We get ourselves a little squealer for the bacon, an I get too attached to the damn thing. Killing day, I always head as far from home as I can get. Most-times I go down as far as the irthe orchards an sit watching the windle-silk tents flap in the hot wind.
Pigs scream when they die.
Of course, I don’t tell no-one about it, an I’m happy for the bacon an the sausages, but it still wouldn’t do if Hobs knew Jek Grinningtommy got all sentimental over breakfast. I thump the scrounger’s back quick-like, an step up to our room.
There’s still three cots up here, although Prue’s stuff has mostly been sold off already. In the low thatch, a mouse scritches. The thatch is looking ragged. Come summer, I’ll have to head down to the banks of the Casabi to see what good reeds I can bring back, an help Oncle mend it.
“Here,” says Oncle. He’s digging through a small kist what he’s drug out from under his bed. “This’ll see you.” He stands an drops two bits in my hand. They’re bright as moons in the dark room. I stare at him – that’s more money than I ever seen in my life – two silver bits – you could buy half the pub with this.
“It’s your mam’s,” he says. “It’s what the Lammer paid her.”
I don’t right understand, an Oncle must see it, ‘cause he claps one iron-scarred hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy enough that I just ‘bout buckle under the weight. Working with iron makes the scrivvers strong, an not in ways the Lams with their heads stuffed full of magic dust would ever understand. “You keep that tight, Jek. One day may be that you can buy your way free out of this mess.”
His words don’t make no sense, but they’re making my chest feel prickly with nerves. All my muscles tighten, readying me to run.
Someone raps on the wooden door frame, just before the scrounger squeals below. I follow Oncle through the mud an pig-shit, my fingers tight around those coins as I slip them into a sneak’s pocket inside my jacket. At any minute now I’m gonna have to fly, I can feel it in my bones. There’s summat not right in the air. No-one in the Digs would bother knocking, an my heart stops-an-starts, because the sharif might, but there’s no way they can know about that barrow me an Mik cleaned out, less the little worm turned tattle.
Outside stands a wooden cart, two shaggy dun nillies shifting in their traces, glaring about with slitted yellow eyes. A tall Lam‘s standing at their heads, one hand on the nearest one’s ruff. He’s just a low-Lam but he stares down at us like we was no more than shite on his spit-shiny shoes.
Well, at least it’s not a sharif pack. I breathe slow, watching the Lam careful-like in case he makes any kind of move. Though why a low-Lam‘s out here in the Digs is anyone’s guess. He best run that cart back home ‘fore my pack rumbles him.
The cart’s a simple thing fit only for a servant. Although there’s a thistle crest on the side, so he’s working for money. Stupid low-Lam, should’ve covered that up.
Oncle clamps one hand down on my shoulder again, holding me fast.
“Is that the boy then?” The low-Lam talks through his nose. He’s no toff, though. Just works for one, if that silver sash he’s wearing means anything. He’s round-shouldered in the way that tall an skinny people get from stooping all the time, an he squints at me over a nose that would do a carrion-crow proud.
“So he is.”
“Doesn’t he even have decent shoes?”
“Oncle?” I try pull out from his grip, but he holds me still an tight with his hard miner’s hands.
“You’re going with this one, hear,” says my Oncle. “He’s taking you to your da.”
I wriggle free, but he catches me at the wrist, an it don’t matter how fast I am, Oncle’s scriv-sharp an strong.
“I’ve got no da,” I says again. “Prue said.”
The low-Lam sniggers. The sound makes the nillies skittish-like an they roll their yellow eyes, dancing up on their cloven hooves. Like this, with their single horns gone, they look just like big raw-boned goats, nowt magical about them.
“‘Course you do. Your mam came back from that fancy Lam-House fat with you, an two silver bits for her troubles. Now she’s dead, so your da has rightful claim.” Oncle don’t let go of me.
“Nillyshit,” I says, but it’s useless. I’ve always been taller than the other Hobs, an though I’ve darkish hair an slant-eyes, they was ever the wrong colour, dark-green where most Hobs’ are brown. If there’s a Lam somewhere who thinks he’s my da, well, there’s no-one to prove him wrong, an MallenIve law means the Lammers can kill me if I run. There’s nowhere I can go, not unless I want to be burned like that skinny little bat.
“The boy will come quietly,” says that spit-sucking low-Lam, his voice sharp an clean like a new razor. “Or there will be consequences.”
“He’ll give you no trouble.” Oncle clips my ear for good measure. “Get in the back then, lad.”
“Of course he won’t give me any trouble,” the low-Lam says, an quicker than I ever expected a Lam to move, he collars me. “I can’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Pain runs in a sharp line, fire around my throat.
It’s iron, a thin collar like you sometimes see prisoners wearing when they’re leading them off to the courts, an it burns worse than I expect, like a brand. I try get a good kick in at the low-Lam cause there’s no way I’m giving in an going all quiet-like – let the fuckers burn me. I’m not afraid of a low-Lammer.
But my Oncle pulls me up sharp by my jacket, forcing me still while the low-Lam ties me to the iron ring in the back of the cart. “Do what they tell you, Jek,” says Oncle, speaking just for me, his breath in my ear. “There’s good that can come of this, you’ve more future in MallenIve than here, sure enough,” He lets go an I push at him. He don’t say nothing more, just looks at me once then turns away to walk back into the house. I pull at the collar, but the thin chain has me fast an my fingers are blistering. That’s nothing. My own family just fucking sold me over an there ain’t no salve that will make that right.
An that’s it. No more Digs, no more fighting with Marlon and his pack, or hanging around the mines seeing if we can cop scriv-dust. It’ll be off to the towers an streets of MallenIve’s Lam rookeries where the only Hobs are beggars or servants. Or worse.
I don’t want to look at Oncle when the low-Lam hops up onto his seat an clicks at the nillies, so I turn my back an pull my knees up. It must be how a nilly feels when the bonesaw cuts through its horn an steals the magic. Empty, filling up the left-over space with hate.
I scrunch my shoulders an let the jerk an rattle of the cart take me away. My ear throbs where Oncle clipped me proper. I try push all my thoughts on that spot instead of the collar burning me. I’m reeling still. No-one turns family in – that’s stronger than law. But Oncle did it.
Prue did it too in her own way, by not telling me the truth. The hate fills up in me so tight I feel like I’m choking. I want to yell back at the Digs, about how this ain’t right, but there’s now way I’m speaking now, caught between the burn of iron an anger. I swallow it all down, promising myself that no matter what comes in my life, I will never become like Oncle. I’ll hate him, I’ll hate this da of mine. I’ll even hate Prue for being weak, but I won’t ever be like them an turn on my own.
All I got now is those two coins in my jacket pocket. I slip them out an hold them tight as we clop past the heaps of rubbish, past the first of the Seven Widows, all the way through the alleys an streets, the narrow apartments of the low-Lams, an then on to where the rich live in their shiny houses, up to where the bone finger of MallenIve University jabs the darkening sky.
From far away, I hear the thin scream of the scrounger.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
House of Sand and Secrets began a good few years ago as another book called The Melancholy Raven, after Traget’s book in the story. When the Sea is
Rising Red had just been sold and I was still eager to push on with Felicita’s story, still trying to get to grips with the person she will finally become in Bones Like Bridges. I gave up on The Melancholy Raven despite the enthusiasm my writers’ group showed for it because I felt I was venturing into a territory I really didn’t understand. The Melancholy Raven was (and still is) at its heart, a romance. How appropriate then, I suppose, that the story used to tie people together and bring them back to life is an epic love poem.
But I’m no good at romance. Certainly not in any expected way, so I closed it half-written and shoved it aside.
The call of the story ended up being too strong, or I was too bored one day, or three ravens flew across my path, or whatever reason, and I ended up coming back and finishing it - writing a romance that I felt happy calling a romance, even if perhaps it doesn’t fit all the criteria.
Along the way it grew a new name and became what it is now. I didn’t get here alone. Many good people and dear friends have helped me shape that early draft and my thanks go to all of them.
To the Musers, who are the most inspirational bunch of people living inside a plastic box that I have ever not met.
To Elissa Hoole, Heather Anastasiu, Glynnis Rambaud, Elizabeth Retief and the others who read and gave me feedback.
To the Adamastors, who keep me sane once a month and put up with my sailor’s mouth, my penchant for terrible jokes and beer-fuelled innuendo.
To my editor, Nerine Dorman, my agent, Suzie Townsend, and to Brianna Privett, my partner-in-crime
Most especially though, my thanks go to the people who are by my side every day and who have never ever lost faith in me or my writing – my family, my children, and my dearest Brian.