Cam’s face looked as if he’d just been splashed with his own bucket of Cold. ‘Shivers and Frosts! It’s fantastic.’
I shrugged, trying not to seem too proud. It was my mysterious family member who’d fixed the machine, after all.
Cam waited a long pause, his face flushed with intrigue. ‘You want to know a secret?’
My heartbeat picked up. ‘What?’
‘It didn’t work,’ Cam said, lips puckered with a laugh.
‘I know. I— My friend fixed it.’
‘No,’ Cam said, like this whole thing had been a big joke. ‘When I bought it at the Ancient Shop. It didn’t work. Got it at a great deal, too. I was going to have Leroi fix it for me last night, but it looks like there’s more than one genius Tinkerer in Paphos.’ Cam winked. ‘And he’s in your family, nonetheless.’
I felt my head tilt. ‘What? Who’s Leroi?’
Cam smirked, polishing off the tea and putting the mugs in his pockets. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ He carefully took the music box, giving it a big kiss. ‘Well, thank you very much, Spout.’
I gave a small bow, sad that I didn’t have more time to spend with the treasure.
‘I have a few things I have to do at the Manor,’ Cam said. ‘I guess I still don’t know the exact rules.’ He was careful with his next words. ‘Is there any way to, um, reserve you? Not that you’re property or anything like that. I just … you know, want to make sure—’
I held up my hands. ‘It’s okay. I understand. Unfortunately not, but I promise that if anyone else sends me on errands, I’ll do them quickly.’
‘Okay, good, because tomorrow I want—’ Cam nearly dropped the music box, his eyes widening. ‘Wait!’
‘What’s wrong?’
Cam didn’t answer, skirting around me so fast I thought his robes might catch on the stone wall. My stomach knotted, wondering what might have set him off.
Then I saw it.
Cam had stopped in front of an Opened Eye, painted on the stone in gold. His hand snapped out to point at it, finger stiff.
I couldn’t believe I’d missed seeing the symbol earlier, considering it was so close to where I’d left the music box; although the gold colour blended almost flawlessly against the beige brick. The Eye was only more apparent now that the Sun was higher and spilling more light into the alley.
‘Did you paint this?’ Cam asked, his pointed finger circling the pupil. But his question was full of hope, not accusation.
‘No,’ I said quickly.
Cam’s eyes narrowed, searching me for the truth.
‘I swear,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t me. I don’t even know what it is.’
‘You don’t?’
I shook my head, oddly cross with myself for lying to him.
Cam looked at me, then, holding one finger to his lips, he reached under his shirt and drew out a necklace. The chain jangled down over his shirt, holding up the symbol’s twin. He looked down at the Opened Eye and then straight back at me. ‘Yeah. I don’t either. I have no idea what this symbol could mean.’
Then he reached into his chest pocket and pulled up the thin book he’d been reading, to reveal the Opened Eye inked on the cover.
‘No clue whatsoever,’ he said, drawing out the words, letting the book slide back in.
My throat went dry.
The second bell rang out overhead and Cam sighed, putting the necklace away. ‘Damn. I need to go, I’m going to be late. Sorry, Spout.’
I tried not to look at the golden Opened Eye on the wall, but it seemed to be calling me, even more so than the last time I’d seen it.
‘Listen, I know your people have every reason not to trust mine,’ Cam said, adjusting the box. ‘But you can trust me. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’
I gave the smallest of nods, my stomach still dancing from all the Cold I’d drunk earlier.
Cam walked a couple of steps, but he stopped, and turned back to face me. ‘I think I understand now. I mean I did already, but now I’m pretty sure she was right.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Mama Jana. When I went to her, she told me— You know what, forget I said anything.’ Cam waved with his elbow as he darted down the alley, music box carefully held out and red robes billowing. ‘See you later, Spout! Don’t have too much fun without me!’
Black smoke spilled from the roof of the Arch Road Cry Temple.
The oily cloud stood in a long plume, menacing against the already harsh sky. Every Jadan still left on their corner seized up, wondering if they’d be sent to snuff the flames out. I looked down at my uniform and deliberated how much sand I might be able to carry if I folded the bottom into a pocket.
The shops in the Market Quarter rarely caught fire – the poor Jadans stationed in the Blacksmith Quarter couldn’t say the same – and last time flames broke out there, many Jadans had left the buildings with melted bodies.
But the black smoke wasn’t just coming from the Cry Temple: all above Paphos, black trails marked the sky. Each Quarter had its own plume, which meant it wasn’t an accident. This couldn’t mean anything good.
Then came the Priests.
Usually the white-robed holy Nobles remained sequestered in the holy houses, manipulating the minds of young Jadans, but now they filed down the road in two neat rows, each of their hands wrapped around a silver pole, hoisting a Closed Eye overhead. They spun the poles in slow turns, rubbing their palms, the Eyes rotating and casting their judgement on us all.
As the Priests hummed a low chant, taskmasters began to emerge from every corner, swarming onto Arch Road. Their whips were out and cracking, shouting for the Jadans to return to their corners. The whips didn’t seem to care how quickly the Jadans were obeying. I was already on my corner, but I felt as if I could feel the sting of every lash, my hurried family members crying out. I longed to do something, but I was stuck.
The two lines of Priests flanked the middle of the street, pausing all at once as someone gave a shrill whistle. The taskmasters stopped their torment long enough to politely ask the Noble shoppers to stand to one side of the road, so they may commence whatever monstrosity this was going to be.
Then Jadanmaster Thoth’s voice boomed out. ‘Holy day!’
I could only see him in my peripherals, but his bearing was intense as he prepared his ink and pen. ‘Corners, slaves! Holy day.’
Whips cracked some more. Legs scrambled.
This was all happening so fast I had no idea what to make of it. The Sun was directly overhead, and everything was so clear. The white of the Priests’ robes was nearly impossible to look at straight on without wincing, and it felt as if the Sun was using the fabric to flood the street.
‘There shall be a day of Cleansing,’ Thoth bellowed. ‘In order to draw the poison out. Praise be to the Khat. Paphos shall once again be purified.’
I hadn’t heard of a Cleansing before, and from the looks of my kin, neither had they. The Gospels commanded a Procession each month, but that was the only big event in Paphos I could recall in my lifetime.
The Noble shoppers all seemed elated at this little bit of fun. They gathered together in happy clumps, pulling out their Closed Eye necklaces, chattering excitedly.
Then came the sounds of the chains.
The line of Jadans was marched down the road. The Priests dipped their poles inwards in order to make a looming steeple under which the chained would have to walk. Some of the Jadans were whimpering, shackles chafing their ankles. Every one of their faces looked confused, as if they hadn’t expected to end up in this crowd. And there seemed too many of them. Even in the Procession the numbers never got this high. Dozens upon dozens of prisoners were marched into place on the steps of the Temple.
Black smoke continued to pour out of the chimney. The scent in the air changed. It became stale and murky, and the street smelled of rot.
Thoth marched down Arch Road and gave all the cornered Jadans an unusable symbol. When he got to me, not only did I get the ink on my fo
rehead, but he made me stick out my tongue so he could draw one there, digging the tip of his quill as deeply as he could.
For the next half-bell, we waited in silence, my mouth tasting of blood and ink. I was too shocked to make any sense of this. Looking over at the Cry Temple, I could almost see the toxic air rising from the shackled Jadans.
Then came the light of the dagger.
The Vicaress flowed down Arch Road like blood over glass, moving slowly and deliberately. The flames of her blade gave off the same black smoke as the Temples. The smell of death intensified.
‘The Blasphemy continues,’ the Vicaress said, forgoing her usual song as she swept over to the Cry Temple. She walked alone, no young girls dressed in white or Rose of Gilead petals within sight.
One of the Priests dressed in an elaborate white gown, peaked at the head like the Pyramid, stood behind the Vicaress’s left shoulder and shouted out what she said in a voice loud enough for all of us to hear. ‘The Blasphemy continues!’
‘First the girl affronted the Khat by dropping the Shiver. Now the mark of Evil has been seen on the walls of Paphos. Trying to convince you of something that is simply untrue.’
So it was the Opened Eye that had caused this. Had one of the taskmasters seen me with Cam? Was the Vicaress going to snatch me off my corner and put me in front of the rest of the chained?
‘Five of the markings have been spotted in this Quarter alone,’ the Vicaress continued. ‘The Sun is trying to corrupt your minds, unworthy children. But fear not. I will cleanse this city, so you may once again survive in the merciful arms of the Khat.’
She lifted her palms towards the sky.
‘You may have seen the Opened Eye, the Trickster’s Mark, the Firemaker’s Brand.’ The Vicaress raised her dagger high. ‘But I shall remove the Sun’s words from your ears. I will drive the lies from your heart!’
And that’s when I knew that the Vicaress had to be a fraud. She had no direct access to the Crier, she couldn’t possibly. If she was cleansing those who’d seen the Opened Eye, then I would be among the chained. I’d looked at it more than once – I’d even carved one – and here I was, still on my corner, watching innocents get punished. That was the shattering of the last link in the chain of doubt. Maybe I couldn’t invent the outlandish things I dreamed of, but I would make things. I would make dozens of things. Hundreds. I’d tinker until my fingers bled. As long as I lived, I’d squeeze my mind for Ideas until it went black.
The Vicaress advanced on the first Jadan on the Temple steps. She lowered her fiery blade, her blue eyes hardening as she muttered incantations in a language that seemed made up.
The head Priest couldn’t replicate the sounds she was making, so instead he started another low hum that the rest of the Priests copied.
Then came the screaming.
Chapter Seventeen
Mother Bev tried her best to stand tall, but so many years of a proper slave stance had left her back one giant crook.
‘This is not the Crier’s will,’ Bev said, straining to address us all. ‘The Gospels are one thing, but this has gone too far.’ She coughed, obviously not used to speaking so loudly. ‘They are making up their own rules now.’
Voices rose in the chamber, some in agreement, some in fear. The Cleansing hadn’t only happened on the streets. The Vicaress had made sure her wrath had spread to the Builders, Domestics and Patch Jadans as well. Priests had run rampant around Paphos, with weapons of their own and carrying out vicious acts of her Cleansing. But considering the white-robed holy men weren’t as precise with a blade as the Vicaress, the Jadan death toll was far higher today. Many of the survivors had even been chained to their own dead-carts and made to carry their fallen kin out to the sands.
Our barracks alone was missing two members. We still weren’t sure if Miggy and Cariah were on dead-cart duty or stacked in the dead-carts themselves.
‘Today was an act of savagery,’ Mother Bev said. ‘And it forces us to respond with savagery of our own.’
Slab Hagan’s massive body loomed beside her, waiting patiently to provide his counter-argument. ‘We must obey the Crier. We must be grateful for life.’
Mother Bev looked as if she was about to breathe fire. ‘Grateful? For what should we be grateful? For the starvation? For the torture? For the—’
‘The Vicaress had to cleanse us!’ Slab Hagan said. ‘The Boilweed Girl defiled our name. We were tainted. Now we are clean.’
Mother Bev spat on the ground, waving two knuckles at the roof. I’d never seen her this angry before, and I hoped she wouldn’t break anything. ‘This was not the Crier’s work. And the Boilweed Girl is probably dead already. The Nobles might have even drawn those marks theyselves, just to make a reason to prove their might.’
‘And what do you want us to do, Bev?’ Dabria called out, her voice shaking. ‘Rise against the chosen?’
‘This was not the Crier!’ Mother Bev shouted, trying to hobble into a menacing stance, but only raising her head enough to reach Hagan’s elbow. ‘This was an affront to the natural order! This was innocents being slaughtered. The Crier will be on our side if we fight back.’
‘If He was on our side He would Cry again for us,’ Steeven said. ‘Even if this wasn’t His direct order, nothing has changed. The Khat gets all the Cold. We have to obey or we all die.’
‘So? We die,’ Bev huffed.
‘Easy for you to say!’ someone shouted. ‘You’ve already got a foot in the dead-carts. What about us who don’t want to be punished and sent to the eternal black!’
Slab Hagan nodded in agreement, crossing his meaty arms over his chest.
I shot a questioning look at Moussa, querying whether I should speak up. He shook his head, whispering: ‘Let the elders go first.’
‘Abb!’ Mother Bev called. ‘Get up here and talk some sense into these cowards!’
‘Not cowards,’ Slab Hagan grunted. ‘Loyal.’
Abb sighed, dropping his healing box. Everyone went quiet as he walked towards the main doors. He put his hands behind his back, collecting his thoughts, and finally turned to face us, keeping his lips sealed.
Small conversations rumbled around the chamber, but were quickly hushed by Mother Bev.
‘I have been under the heel of the Nobles for thirty-seven years,’ Abb said. ‘Some of you have served longer, some of you are just getting started. During that time, I have learned a lot about the World Cried. Even in shackles, I have known love. Even against the whip, I have seen beauty. But mostly I have seen our struggle. We serve so we may survive, but today was different,’ Abb said quietly. ‘Today was wrong.’
A round of disagreeing huffs pocked the air, but Bev held her hands out for silence.
Abb continued: ‘If you truly believe this Cleansing was a normal part of Jadan life, then I suggest you look away now. For all you others …’ Abb slowly reached into his back pocket and held up my carving of the Opened Eye, finding a beam of starlight to illuminate the details. I gasped, as I thought I’d chucked the thing out into the dunes with the rest of the purge.
It took a moment for the onlookers to register what it was, and some shrieked, holding up the blankets to shield themselves. A few gasped like I had, sucking in quick breaths. Hagan winced away from the carving, as if he’d just been whipped, but Bev looked at the symbol as if it was a Frost.
‘This was their so-called blasphemy, but it is just a symbol. It is just a symbol until we decide it’s more. In thirty-seven years I have learned that the Nobles can punish us for disobedience,’ Abb said, his voice filling with steel. ‘They can punish us for lying. They can punish us for not meeting our quotas. They can punish us even out of boredom. As they alone hold life in their Patches.’ Abb took a deep breath, the carving beginning to shake in his hand. ‘But they cannot punish us for having hope. When we are not allowed to hope, then this life is already the eternal black. Whether it’s real or not, the Opened Eye is as much a part of our people as our chains. We must be like my
son, and look at the things that can be changed. We cannot abandon—’
A metallic clinking sounded at the main doors, and Abb went silent, pushing the carving back in his pocket. Everyone turned towards the doors.
Gramble burst in, his eyes rimmed red as if he’d been crying. ‘Shut up! All of you! I try to let you have your peace, but I can’t pretend I don’t hear this commotion! Wasn’t today hard enough? Do you really want more lashes to fall on your shoulders?’ He slammed his hand against the door and a deep boom thrummed in the air. Then he waved about a piece of parchment with what looked like the Khat’s seal branded into the paper. ‘They sent these to all the barracks! If you knew what I’m supposed to— What she wants me to—’ He slammed his fist again, the door vibrating deeply. ‘Just go to bed!’
Then he crashed the doors shut as violently as he could, and locked us in.
Abb waited a few beats and then pointed to the hallway leading to his room. ‘All who want to discuss further about what we can do,’ he said, voice soft yet firm, ‘my quarters.’
Most Jadans turned away. I heard a few of them curse Abb under their breath for the carving. The Patchies all fled silently to their own private quarters, too obedient a bunch to make a fuss. But a small batch of the Builders and a few Domestics ignored their boilweed divisions and made their way towards Abb’s room, fear and determination fighting on their faces.
I joined them, surprised that all I felt was an overwhelming desire to go outside. Steeven was right when he said nothing had changed in terms of Cold still only falling for the Khat. But my new Idea – however impossible it might be – had to do with just that problem. The Cold only fell in the Patches, but it was still up there. It still existed above, in the heavens or the blackness. I touched Matty’s bird carving in my pocket, wondering yet again about the nature of flying. About the nature of how Cold fell to the land.
In that moment, I didn’t need discussion. I needed to look up at the stars.
I needed to figure out how to touch the sky.
Chapter Eighteen
Coldmaker Page 16