by Allison Pang
In another moment, the procession is gone, but the bells continue to echo through the streets, and the sound mocks me.
Dr. Barrows closes the book and lays it on the table beside my bed. “I think that’s plenty for one day.”
I lean against the wall as I face him. “Why?”
“Well, I assumed you might want to—”
“To what? Mourn?” The anger gnaws at my insides, and I point out the window. “What good does pissing and moaning do? How does that help us? How will it help her?”
“It doesn’t,” he admits, handing me the book again. “As to—”
A knock on the door interrupts whatever he’s about to say, and he nearly sags with relief as Ghost enters the room.
The other Moon Child glances at the book I’m holding, a smirk twisting his lips when he sees the tattoos, but there’s no humor in it. “The Tithe . . . It’s Penny.”
I gasp, despite my efforts to contain myself. “Penny? But she’s second-in-command among the Banshees. Rory would never have sent her if he had a choice.” I swallow hard against a sudden wave of sadness. Or maybe it’s guilt. It’s certainly realization. Inquestor Caskers must have demanded her as part of his recompense for what I’ve done.
I drop the book and lurch to my feet, unable to look at it any longer. My fine words to Dr. Barrows mock me, but it had been easier to bear when I didn’t know who it was.
The dragon alights on my shoulder, and I pull on my coat. Well, it’s one of Dr. Barrows’s throwaways, like his shirt, but I’ve come to think of it as mine.
“You can’t possibly be thinking of going out now—in the daylight.” Dr. Barrows frowns at me. “And surely not with the dragon.”
“I know better than you how to move about without being seen,” I snap, pulling the large hood up so it covers both me and the dragon. “Don’t fret yourself about it.”
“But—”
“I’m not some servant to do all you bid. ’Tis Moon Child business. That’s all you need to know.” The fact that he’s probably right only irritates me further, but I’ve already lost Sparrow. I may not be a clan member anymore, but Penny was my friend. I owe it to her to bear witness.
And perhaps a bit of solid reconnaissance is in order. I’ve never watched a Tithe with anything other than fear or sorrow; if I’m truly going to be placing myself in this position, I need to watch it with a fresh set of eyes.
“I’ll go with her.” Ghost gives me a half smile. I can’t tell if he’s humoring Dr. Barrows or mocking me, and I don’t much care. It’s not for me to tell him no. He’s a Moon Child, too, after all.
I weigh my chances of fitting through the window without tearing my stitches, but Ghost gestures for me to follow him. “We can take the servants’ stairs. No one will bother us there.”
Dr. Barrows snorts, but he lets us go and we shut the door behind us. I haven’t actually seen much of the brothel, except for the water closet at the end of the hall, my room, and the bar. Far below, I can hear the distant sounds of merrymaking of one type or another as Ghost leads me down to the first landing and through a nondescript door into a narrow set of windowless passages. A few flickering light bulbs illuminate our way.
“This floor belongs to the working girls,” he says suddenly, as though to fill the silence with something other than the sigh of our breath. “Their private rooms, I mean. They do their actual . . . work in specialty rooms on the first floor. Honestly, the only other things worthy of note are the kitchens and the baths below.”
My eyes widen. “There’s a bathhouse here?”
“It’s mostly for customers, but Molly overlooks the times I’ve used it, as long as I’m discreet. Probably wouldn’t do much for business if people knew Moon Children were washing in it.”
“Even the baths are full of secrets,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Ah, well. That’s her business, isn’t it?”
“Never thought about it, I suppose. I’ve always been too busy looking for my next meal to worry about intrigue.” I say it matter-of-factly. There’s no shame in being hungry.
He mulls this over for a bit, even as we exit through the kitchens and out the side door into the alley where Sparrow and I were ambushed not so long ago. Daylight does nothing to improve its looks. I sigh when Ghost tugs on my coat, my chest aching with the memory of Sparrow’s face.
We cling to the shadows as we emerge from the alley. Market Square is normally bustling with activity, but the streets are mostly empty, leaving us more exposed than I’d like. The dragon squirms restlessly upon my shoulder, and I give it a gentle poke, ignoring the way it gnaws on my knuckle.
We’ll have time to make it to the entrance of the Pits without much trouble given the Inquestors insist the Tithes wend their way through much of city, to remind us of what they protect us from.
We take the side streets, cutting through Prospero’s Park along the way. It’s a small bit of space, crowned by the tattered remains of a garden long since dead. All that’s left now are a few stone benches and a headless statue overgrown with vines of a dubious nature.
The silhouette of the town hall lurks over the park, and beyond that, the Mother Clock stands like a skeletal crone in a cape of blackened bricks and skinny windows the color of burnished gold. One of the tallest structures of BrightStone, the Mother Clock shadows some part of the city at all times, like the center of a sundial. The Tithe processions start from her courtyard before spiraling through the city in its offering of flesh and sickness.
Ghost and I head for Blessing Bridge, sneaking through the tent city without issue and into the Warrens proper. I pull my hood closer to my face. Whether Rory thinks I’m dead or not, I was cast out from the Banshees. Without clan protection, I’m trespassing in their territory.
I look to the rooftops, feeling very much a target as I trudge along the greasy cobblestones. Imagined stares make me fidgety, and the dragon nips me again when I shift my shoulders. If there are other Moon Children about, they aren’t making themselves known, and that’s probably just as well.
The Tithe bells continue to ring on and on; the very bricks are weeping with the echoing sound. Ghost pauses at a street corner to peer into the fog and then waves me forward to settle into a hiding spot behind a stack of broken barrels. The gated entrance to the Pits looms before us, glowing red beneath the guttering torches. For all the rust in the Warrens, these gates are all the more terrifying with their carved beauty and well-oiled hinges.
In the distance, the Tithe marches up the street. I suppress a shudder when I see Penny at the front of the procession. Her head is still bowed, as though she can’t bear to look where she’s walking, the bells dangling from her crippled hand.
The Tithers flank her on either side, dressed in their crimson Inquestor robes and pale bird masks. The long, curved beaks make them look like ethereal crows ready to pluck the eyes from the damned. At the end of the line are a pair of gray-cloaked salt priests, sprinkling a trail of purified sea salt upon the cobblestones and calling out their prayers to any who might be listening.
I doubt it’s any great comfort, though. Certainly not to those in the procession. It’s awful enough to know you’ve contracted an incurable disease, and even more so when the rest of BrightStone thinks you deserve it because you’ve sinned, maybe gambled too much or took a lover.
The Tithe procession slows here, three Inquestors peeling away from their charges to man the gate. A heavy, ornamental lock rests on the entrance, but it’s all for show. The real lock is a series of winches somewhere high above, only accessible via the Inquestor airships. A scout ship is docked there now, drifting softly against the tower.
Penny has stopped ringing the bells and is clenching the strap in her fist. The Inquestor at the lock motions above him, signaling the crew in the airship. The winches creak softly until the gate opens with a whine.
Behind Penny, the Rotters begin to moan; panic and fear and despair fill the voices behind the masks. The Tithers are well p
repared, armed with Tithe wands, copper batons that crackle with arcs of silver electricity at the press of a button.
I shift in the coat, steeling myself against what comes next.
It’s almost always the same. No matter how cowed the Rotters are, one or two try to run. They never escape, the electric leashes nabbing a limb or a neck, forcing them to their knees or facedown in the street, bodies flailing in uncontrollable shudders.
This time is no different.
Penny remains still among the sudden outburst of movement. No Moon Child has ever attempted to run with the others, but it’s hard to flee when the Tithers have drugged you out of your mind to keep you docile.
I’ve often wondered why they don’t do the same for the Rotters, if only to spare them the horror of their own existence. But I suppose that would be a mercy, in its own way, and the last thing the Inquestors ever show is mercy.
The Mother Clock clangs out the midday hour with a finality that cannot be denied. Inside my coat, the dragon lets out an answering rumble, the sound lost in the vibration of the metallic bong-bong-bang of the clock.
The Inquestors round up the last of the stragglers, using their electric prods to force the miserable lot past the gates. Penny waits until they’re through, staring past them hollowly as the Tither pulls Penny’s hair from her neck to observe her clan brand, writing her number down in the Tithe roster. He takes her wrist and undoes the strap, his mask pointing at the entrance.
Her nostrils flare wide, and then she flees into the darkness with the others, a pale, graceful bird set free into the gaping maw of a monster whose belly will never be filled.
With the Tithe complete, the Inquestors linger only to lock the gates before heading to their private quarters on the far side of BrightStone. The rest of the citizens gradually emerge from their doorways and hiding spots. For all their quiet now, the pubs and brothels will be packed tonight, filled with people trying to forget. The salt priests can mumble on about vice all they like, but some nights only a stiff drink and an even stiffer shag will wipe away the horror.
I scowl, restless with anger and sadness. Ghost and I cross over Blessing Bridge toward the Market Square. I’ve no strong urge to return to Dr. Barrows and my lessons. Jamming my hands deep into my coat pockets, I’m pleasantly surprised to find a sixpence.
Ghost watches bemusedly when I stop by a street vendor for a cigarillo before ducking into an alley. I tweak the dragon’s tail, and its mouth opens to let out a surprised puff of flame, lighting the twisted bit of paper. “There’s a love.”
I take a deep pull and offer it to Ghost, but he waves it away. I shrug. More for me. My feet burrow a trail in the muck as I pace, trying to smoke the cigarillo slowly but failing miserably.
It’s nothing but an ashy memory a few minutes later, leaving my fingers empty and twitching. After being cooped up in that little room so long now, I’m nearly trembling with the need to run.
I imagine that for a brief moment, letting the distant promise of Meridion slip away. What loyalty do I truly owe Molly or the doctor? For a few meals and some bonewitchery, the Pits are a rather steep price to pay.
Ghost lets out a quiet sigh. “Trouble coming our way. Don’t look up.”
A pair of Inquestors glide up the street, red robes contrasting brightly against the backdrop of the crowd. No Tithe masks, so they’re regular patrols. I try not to tense, and they pass us by without incident.
I watch them go with relief, my thoughts continuing to patter between running away and making a stand. I glance sideways at Ghost and shake my head. “It occurs to me that the Pits used to be a mine, aye? I suppose it’s too much to hope any of you might have a map of the underground? Might make escaping a bit easier if I have the lay of the land, so to speak.”
He frowns thoughtfully. “Not that I know of. Most of the records from that time seem to have disappeared.”
“Be a damn sight more useful than memorizing bonewitch marks,” I mutter. “Come on. I’ve an idea of someone who might know something.”
“Where are we going?”
“The museum. Sparrow and I used to go there when we needed to lie low.” A raw sadness flushes through me. Used to. Only a few weeks ago we’d crashed there one rainy evening, looking through picture books stored away in the attic.
“I never really took you for being scholarly, Mags.”
“Just because I can’t read doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” I snap. “Besides no one ever thinks to look for us there.”
His cheeks redden. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me.”
“Aye.” I turn away, storming my way into a crowd of people on the street.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” Something large slams into my shoulder, shoving me back into the alley and knocking me down hard enough that my hood slips off. The dragon tumbles down the inside of my cloak, its claws catching on the back of my shirt. The stitches in my side burn sharply, leaving me gasping as I struggle to my feet.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” a familiar voice hisses in my ear.
Rory.
“Well, fuck,” I mutter, pulling the hood partially over my head as quick as I can.
“Fuck, indeed,” he snarls. “They made me give up Penny to the Tithe. Because of you. You couldn’t keep from sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, and now she’s gone.” His voice shakes as he says it, from anger or sadness or some mix of the two.
An answering twinge of guilt punches me hard in the gut, but I raise my chin all the same, refusing to look away. “Yes, she is. Just like Sparrow.” My lower lip trembles, and it’s hard to get the words out because Penny didn’t deserve this, either. “And whose fault is that?”
A soft scuff above me indicates Ghost’s presence. He must have climbed the walls as soon as he saw Rory. To an outsider it might seem like cowardice, but I suspect it’s more about practicality. It’s for the best anyway. This is between Rory and me; Ghost doesn’t need to be part of it.
His eyes narrow. “And yet here you are.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “And where else would I be? You think that just because I somehow managed to survive a knife between my ribs, I should come crawling back to the clan that cast me out? You really think you command that level of loyalty anymore?”
I advance on him until he’s pressed up against the wall, anger boiling white-hot beneath my skin. “You made your position perfectly clear that night when you let the Inquestors take me and Sparrow. Now let me make mine clear to you: I lost the only person I’ve ever truly loved because you were too chickenshit to do your duty to your clan. You abandoned us, and therefore, we’re no longer your concern.”
I flick him in the nose with my fingers, and his head snaps back as though he’s been slapped. I watch him, nearly dizzy with all this sadness and fury and frustration at the unfairness of Sparrow’s death, not to mention the unknown situation I’m now in. It’s so much easier to take it out on the man before me, to focus my wrath upon him.
But Rory is a coward, and we both know it. Unused to having his clan talk back to him, it takes him a moment to regain his composure. His hands have tightened into fists, but he makes no move to strike. Something unreadable washes over his face, as though he’s weighing his options.
I brace myself for an attack, but he merely nods. When he speaks, his voice has a quiet darkness to it, a bit of fear threading its way through his words, undermining any threat he attempts to make. “Fair enough. We’re finished here. But if I catch you in the Warrens again, Raggy Maggy, I’ll kill you. Permanently, this time.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, briskly heading toward the street only to be swept up into the remainder of the crowd.
“Charming. Slugs never stop leaving slime behind them,” I murmur at his retreating back.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.” Ghost slides out from around a dormer window, easily landing beside me. “He nearly pissed himself. Do you think we can trust him to keep his mouth shut?”
“Maybe. He’s hurting a lot over Penny. Not sure he wants any more scrutiny from the Inquestors at the moment, but I wouldn’t be placing any wagers on it. I’ll have to be more careful about where I go.”
I say this with more confidence than I actually feel. Rory being aware of my circumstances is bad news. But short of killing him outright, there wasn’t anything I could really do about it, and murder isn’t exactly on my repertoire of skills. I say as much to Ghost, and he shrugs.
“You seem like you can handle yourself. Besides, I doubt the Inquestors will be too keen on having their shortcomings pointed out—if they even believe him. Admitting that they failed to kill an injured Moon Child isn’t exactly something to be proud of. The High Inquestor isn’t known for being a patient man.”
I shift in the cloak until the dragon is back on my shoulder. “Point taken. Just don’t tell Dr. Barrows. If I have to listen to another of his lectures I’m going to brain him.”
He smirks, falling into line beside me as we join the rest of the crowd trailing out of the Warrens. “Deal.”
The BrightStone Museum is a pillared monstrosity, perched on a series of thick marble steps leading to a set of metal doors flaked with rust. Being this close to the river means the brine and stink of the water tends to eat through anything that isn’t sealed properly.
Not that it matters. Most of the artifacts are imprisoned behind thick glass, untouchable.
Ghost starts for the steps, but I tug on his sleeve. “Not that way.”
“We don’t have to sneak in. There’s no admission fee.” He frowns. “Are they even open?”
“They close during the Tithes. But it’s the principle of thing. Besides, Sparrow and I had a private entrance.” I lead him to the rear of the place, eyeing the rooftop dubiously. “Of course, we have to be up there to get in.”