I sat back to look into the loopy face of Old Man Gum, grinning at us through a mouth full of black gaps. As he was the oldest Jadan in our barracks, with skin dark as soot, we had to show him respect, even though he never made much sense.
‘Morning, Zeti Gum,’ Matty said, offering the youthful term of respect.
Gum bent down and patted us all on the head, then, without another word, he wandered back to his private space, tucked aside the boilweed curtain, and slumped back to his ratty blanket. There was enough space to watch him land directly on his face and tap the ground, listening for a response.
Matty picked up the metal feather Gum had accidentally knocked from his ear, and slipped it in his pocket.
‘Anyway,’ I said with a smile, ‘last night, when I was in the Smith Quarter, I found a full Shiver in the boilweed.’
Matty’s eyes went wide. ‘Did’ja touch it?’
I gave a slow nod, feeling a lump in my throat.
Matty angled his head to look at my palms. ‘Did’ja hands burn up?’
I splayed them wide, calloused yet unharmed. ‘Nothing.’
Moussa looked at me, astounded. ‘Where is it now? You didn’t try to keep it, did you?’
From the concern in his voice, I thought it best not to mention the Wisps that Abb had given me. My stomach churned at even the thought of betraying the Crier. It was probably best to bury the Wisps and never speak of them again.
‘It’s still there,’ I said, keeping my voice down. I looked around the barracks to see if anyone could overhear us. ‘I think so at least. I don’t know for sure, because when I put it back there was a girl watching me.’
Matty’s face broke into a coy smirk. ‘A girrrl …?’
I reached across and flicked him on the arm. ‘Listen. There was something different about her. She was—’
‘Spout.’ The desperate voice came from over my shoulder.
I turned around and found sweet Mother Bev hunched over, hands on her knees, panting slightly. ‘Can I use a crank-fan, darling?’
‘Of course, you never have to ask.’ I went to get up, but she put a gnarled hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m still able,’ she said with a cracked voice, shuffling off. ‘Blessings, child. May fifteen be Colder than fourteen.’
I watched her walk away. I hated it when she said things like that, as blessings were supposed to be saved for the Khat and Crier only.
When I looked back, Moussa was dabbing his finger in the gem candy dust. He gave me a sheepish look. ‘Thanks, Micah.’
‘Don’t mention it. So this girl,’ I held my palm up like a blade, trying to approximate her posture, ‘she was running on the rooftops like this.’
Matty frowned. ‘Smacking the wind?’
I shook my head with a chuckle. ‘No, her back. She ran with her back completely straight. A Jadan, running like that. Crazy, right?’
Moussa paused and then gave a long shrug. A few boilweed flaps began rustling behind us, bodies in motion, so he lowered his voice. ‘Here’s the thing. That’s weird, I suppose. But she was already out, breaking one rule. What would stop her from breaking two?’
I hadn’t thought of it like that, but something about the memory still bothered me. We weren’t supposed to move like that, so tall and proud, and it almost felt like a worse transgression than hiding Wisps.
I slipped the gears into the candy box and placed it against the wall. From the amount of light basting the roof, I knew the chimes would be ringing soon, and we needed to get ready.
‘Spout,’ a deep voice boomed.
I turned back and found Slab Hagan looming over our group, his meaty body blocking at least five beams of sunlight from reaching the floor. One of my scorpion traps dangled in his hands, the face of the box shut and sealed.
‘Morning, Hagan,’ I said.
‘I’ll eat it when you done?’ Slab Hagan asked, his eyes gleaming with hunger. I never understood how he maintained such a frame on a Jadan diet, even supplemented by the occasional insect.
‘Please,’ he added in a gruff voice.
I made sure the springs of the trap were tight so the scorpion wouldn’t escape, and put it aside for later extraction. ‘Of course. It’s yours.’
Slab Hagan gave something of a thankful bow, and hulked away to his place near the main doors. Jadanmaster Gramble offered double rations of figs and a thick slice of bread to whoever was first in their respective lines, and at this point the Builders just let Slab Hagan have the honour.
The morning chimes rang out and everyone scrambled from their boilweed divisions into the common area, donning dirty uniforms and breathing heavily. The air in the chamber was already thick with the Sun’s heat, and was only getting hotter. The four distinct lines settled together, stretching from wall to wall of the main chamber: Patch, Builder, Street, and Domestic. I landed near the end of my line, the Street Jadans, tucked between Moussa and Matty.
The chimes were all still ringing with ease, and my head swivelled upward, admiring my handiwork of pulleys and cables. Other Barracksmasters used whips and chains, and in severe cases, sprinkles of acid to wake up their Jadans, but Gramble was kind, and he deserved a kind system for rousing us. It had only taken a few days for me to tinker my bells idea into reality – Gramble had access to all the materials he wanted – and I’d received triple rations for a week. Now, to get the system to sound, all our Barracksmaster had to do was pull a lever beneath the sill of his guardhouse window.
I pressed a finger to my hard and scabby lips, ready for water. Looking around the lines, I caught many of my family looking over to me, knowing today was the day I turned fifteen. I got a deranged wave from Old Man Gum, a round of smiles from most of the Domestic line, a playful flash of ten fingers and then five from Avram, and a dozen other little gestures of love.
Gramble’s key flitted inside the lock of the main doors, the tink of metal replacing all the conversations in our rows. The doors flung open and our ruling Noble waddled in, dragging the rations cart behind him. Our tired faces cracked with excitement at the sight of the sloshing buckets. Of course, the relief would be short-lived, as the daylight behind him was already baring fangs.
Gramble unhooked the Closed Eye from the side of the rations cart, spinning the pole so the symbol would stand above us. The copper representation of the Crier’s Eye had its lid sealed shut to our kind, just as the Gospels dictated. It was a reminder of the sins of past Jadans, which the Crier could never forgive.
The Patch Jadans were first for rations, since they had the longest distance to cover and the hardest days ahead. At eighteen, life became excruciating for the young Jadan men, and many of their bodies looked frail from overuse, skin tanned black as shadow. The Sun showed no mercy to those tasked to work in the deep sands, collecting all the Khat’s new-fallen Cold. At the front of the Patch line, Joon kneeled before the Closed Eye, tucked in his chin, and said in a clear voice: ‘Unworthy.’
Gramble nodded, offering in return a cup of water with a single Wisp, and a double ration of figs. The rest of the line of Patch Jadans followed suit, kneeling and offering their regrets to the Eye before passing through the door to face the brutal light of the day.
If a Patch Jadan survived for five years in the blistering conditions, they became a Builder, repairing streets and walls and erecting monuments to the Khat. The Builders were next for rations, Slab Hagan leading the group. He kneeled, but was still almost as tall as Gramble.
‘Unworthy,’ his large mouth boomed.
The cooped-up air in the main chamber began to grow stifling, Sun making its impatience known. Soon it would be warmer inside the barracks than outside, which was saying something.
Abb successfully roused both his patients still stuck in their boilweed divisions – a silent wave of relief sweeping the lines as Dabria coughed her way to her feet – and my father filed in behind the rest of the Builders, giving me a wink before kneeling for rations himself and sweeping through the main doors.
Once the Builders had all left, the Street Jadans were next.
Ours was the largest group, Street Jadans compromised of both boys and girls aged ten to eighteen, and it took a little while before I reached the rations cart. Moussa looked back and gave me a little nod just as he passed through the doors.
I kneeled, dropping hard against the sand. I felt as if I should say the word louder than usual today considering the three Wisps hidden under my blanket. ‘Unworthy!’
Gramble nodded, beckoning me to stand.
‘Spout,’ he said, the nickname always tilting his bushy eyebrows with amusement.
‘Sir.’ I eyed the bucket of water longingly. A night of scavenging always left me famished.
Gramble scooped up a sizable portion of water and then passed it my way. But before I could take it in my shaking hands, he snatched it back, a glib smile on his face.
Then he reached into his pocket and held up a Wisp, dancing it across my eyes.
‘Sir, I—’
He dropped the extra Wisp into the cup and pressed it against my chest. ‘Congratulations on making it to fifteen, boy.’
I stood there, shocked at my good luck. I felt the Closed Eye glaring at me from behind its lid, knowing my guilty secret.
‘Come on now, Spout, drink up!’ ordered Gramble. ‘The Domestics are still waiting their turn!’
I trembled as I lifted the water to my lips, the cool liquid splashing across my blisters and cuts, lighting up my tongue with pure ecstasy. After a night of swimming the rooftops, the water tasted of pure and complete decadence. My stomach wasn’t prepared for the splash of Cold, clenching up tightly at first until it relaxed and enjoyed the gift.
Gramble gave me a large handful of figs and ushered me through the doors, the sunlight smacking me in the face like a fist. However, as hot as the sky was, no pox struck me down, and no spirits from the Great Divide came to drag me under the sands to my death. I could only assume that since I hadn’t actually asked for the three Wisps, the Crier might spare me the wrath.
I moved fast, needing to reach my corner before the morning bell tolled. Jadanmaster Geb was lenient on lateness, but plenty of taskmasters would be waiting in the shadows to make up for this tolerance, hoping to catch their own Jadan and have some fun at our expense.
Chapter Three
Every Jadan’s life is planned from start to finish.
We’re born and raised in the Birth Barracks, and when our minds start getting spongy we’re sent to the Khat’s Priests to learn the Crier’s doctrines and rules. Once we turn ten, the girls with the lightest skin and most comely faces are assigned to be Domestics, and the rest are given a street corner, patiently awaiting orders from a taskmaster, merchant, or Noble of any kind.
A Jadan can always be purchased outright by a Noble, but this comes at a high price, and most Nobles are happy borrowing any Jadan they see fit.
I had three more years of Street duty left, and I wanted them to last as long as possible. My corner was one of the most vibrant in Paphos, and I served under one of the finest Jadanmasters.
Moussa ran ahead of me until he took a sharp turn in the direction of the Bathing Quarter. I kept onwards towards the heart of Paphos, the Market Quarter, snaking my way across my favourite rooftops and deserted alleyways. After five years on Street duty, the pads of my feet were hardened and leathery, immune to the heat of stone. As tough as my heels had become, however, my toes were still susceptible to bites, so I made sure to keep an eye out for forked tongues rising in the gaps. It was rare to run into a Sobek lizard, as they usually didn’t stray far from the boiling water channels pulled off the River Singe, but it was important to stay vigilant. The lizard’s poison couldn’t kill, but errands were quite difficult with a splitting headache and hives.
I speeded up as I spotted two other Street Jadans from another barracks in a nearby alleyway, crouching over a pile of billowing smoke. One of them was holding a sizable shard of glass against the sunlight, focusing the ray on some smouldering boilweed. Both mouths were sucking in large breaths, wafting the fumes towards their faces with sooty fingers, stifling coughs. They’d have to smoke quickly if they were going to make it to their corners in time, but they didn’t seem too concerned.
Some Jadans claim the boilweed makes errands pass like a pleasant dream, and taskmasters’ whips feel like soft kisses. I’d tried the smoke once, but it just made me feel sick, and the residual cough had earned me more than one slap on my throat.
Sweat gathered on the lobes of my ears and I cursed myself for wasting water; every drop counted in this hotbed of a world. I was the only one of my friends who still had the problem. Spout was about as accurate a nickname as any.
Keeping the safe route into the Market Quarter took me longer than I would have liked, but fortunately the day was still early, and the warning bells hadn’t yet rung. Most of the Nobles I would serve today were still asleep, cool under their thin sheets, the richest being fanned by their personal Domestics.
I jumped from a low roof onto the edge of a shop and bounded onto Arch Road. I scrambled over to my corner and pressed myself against the wall. Placing my hand at my sides, I fell into my best slave stance: shoulders rounded, chin down, a slight bend at the hip.
The wall of my corner was slightly pronounced at the top, offering me a few fingers of luxurious shade. Keeping my chin tucked, I watched the other Street Jadans out of the corner of my eye, slipping out of the surrounding alleyways just as the morning bells rang out. I was happy to see the Jadans I knew still on their respective corners, none of them having fallen at the hands of a taskmaster yet.
The final ring was our cue to begin the ‘Khat’s Anthem’. I cleared my throat and launched into the song along with everyone else.
The Crier’s might upon his name
Worthy of the Cold
Dynasty forever
Service for your soul
Blessed be our master
Who keeps us from the sands
His holiness the Khat
Who saved life upon the lands
Holy Eyes have long forsaken
Those of Jadankind
But the Khat is made of mercy
For those blind to the Cry
He keeps us from the darkness
He gives us hope and grace
Long live the Khat and all his sons
Who saved the Jadan race
Jadanmaster Geb skipped onto Arch Road just as the song finished, a big smile on his face. As always, his robes looked new; these ones a jolly shade of green, bright enough to be seen all the way from Belisk. He wore a head wrap of matching green, meticulously tied to hold back his long hair enough to show off his dangling emerald earrings.
There was a reason Geb often had enough Cold to buy such extravagant outfits. From what I understood, Jadanmasters received bonus Cold for keeping their slaves obedient and swift. Since we all appreciated his kindness, there was something of an unspoken pact among the Arch Road Jadans to work hard to make him look good. Even though Jadanmaster Geb was from a High Noble family, and didn’t technically need to work, every Jadan on Arch Road welcomed his presence. Taskmasters didn’t appreciate his softness, or the fact that his skin was darker than most High Nobles, but Geb was confident enough not to care.
He checked us off one by one in his ledger, and stopped in front of me, bending over and slapping me lightly on the cheek. ‘Salutations, Spout.’
‘Sir,’ I said, happy to bask in his shade.
‘I appreciate your promptness, as per usual,’ he said, and I could tell that he meant it. ‘I challenge that if all Jadans were as dutiful as you, the commerce of Paphos would run smoother than silk through fingers. May this birthday be filled with swift and important errands.’
Even the fact that Geb called us ‘Jadans’ rather than ‘slaves’, or ‘Coldleeches’, or ‘The Diseased Unworthy’, spoke a lot about his character.
‘Thank you, sir. That means a lot, sir.’
&nbs
p; He nodded, walking off with a skip in his step to check off his other Jadans. I had to work hard to keep the smile off my face.
After the first hour of morning passed, the street began to fill up with hordes of Noble shoppers. Out of my peripherals I caught them passing back and forth, chirping about the deals of the day. Merchants yelled from their doorways, waving silky dresses and big hats. Women held white umbrellas and wore sun-gowns made of thin fabric that flowed down their legs like water, whilst men wore crisp suits, so white that I almost had to shield my eyes. Sometimes when a Noblewoman got too close I’d catch the intoxicating scent of perfume, and I kept my nose ready for every whiff.
The moustached vendor at the nearest watercart passed out flavoured water to Nobles in exchange for small goods. Most traded food or make-up for the water, but I saw one Nobleman trade away a wooden doll. Fine pieces of woodwork were rare, but some Nobles liked to overpay traders to show off their wealth.
Another Noble habit I’d never understood.
The second bell of the day rang, and then the third, and still no one had chosen me for any errands. I was usually happy keeping to my corner, relaxing in the shade my little overhang offered, but today, idle time allowed my thoughts to wander to the Idea.
I began to sweat, straining towards safer topics.
I’d had the Idea for some time now, but I’d never had the Cold needed to make the particular invention work. Now that I had the three Wisps, my main excuse was gone, and I needed to come up with something else that might dissuade me.
The Crier might turn a blind eye to me having the Cold, but using it for my own benefit would surely be my downfall.
Just then something in the alley across from my corner caught my attention. Most Jadans used the alleyways to get around for errands, and I usually ignored the shadowy movements perforating the lively bustle of Arch Road, but this dark outline was different, as it was keeping completely still. Jadans on errands could get lashes for dawdling, so I tried ignoring the stationary figure at first, but something about the stance resonated with me louder than the morning bells. My curiosity grew stronger than my caution and my eyes began to rise.
Coldmaker Page 3