‘That’s it?’ she asked, aghast. ‘One hit? No—’
Geb cut her off. ‘You requested until he fainted. He fainted. Praise be to the Khat. I believe we are done here.’
‘But it’s faking! It—’
‘Your words, not mine. Now please, allow me to do my job or I will be submitting a writ of complaint to Lord Suth that a member of his family is interfering with one of the Khat’s Jadanmasters, and by decree six, stanza twelve of the Khat’s law, which prohibits High Nobles from—’
The woman gave a venomous huff, and I heard her heavy feet pad away.
I kept still, trying not to breathe in too much sand from the ground as the rest of the audience dispersed to a chorus of disappointed moans. Soon enough they’d be swept up in the fervour of trading precious Cold for useless goods and forget all about me.
After a few moments, hands swept under my armpits and lifted me up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, as he set me on my corner.
He gave me a firm pat on the shoulder, glaring at the three taskmasters, who were still waiting nearby, just in case. ‘Liars are not beneficial for my operations. As always, you did exemplary, Spout. Perfect shade of pink. Like I imparted, more Jadans like you, smooth as silk through fingers.’
The last of the Street Jadans trickled in, and eventually the sloping right wall of the common area was completely lined. Although most of us had some sort of painful trophy to show from the day, we’d returned in one piece, another shift having survived the Sun.
At the end of the day, Jadans’ mouths were usually too thirsty for small talk, but it never usually stopped Matty from keeping my ears occupied.
‘Hey, Spout,’ he practically shouted.
‘Yeah,’ I said, trying not to move my lips too much for fear of them cracking.
He dug a finger in his ear, shifting his jaw. I wondered if his Jadanmaster had boxed his ears again. ‘Wanna play “whatsit”?’
I nodded. My mind was still racing from tinkering on the Cold Bellows, and in truth I would have loved to ponder quietly on that, but I had sworn to myself long ago that I’d do anything I could to keep Matty happy.
My friend lifted off his shirt and pointed to a series of fresh lashes on his shoulder. I winced, knowing how much they would still sting. As soon as the curfew bells rang and we were allowed off the walls, I would give him as much of the groan salve as he wanted.
‘Whatsit?’ Matty asked.
‘Hmmm.’ I traced the lines on Matty’s back, trying to come up with something good. ‘It’s the three paths that Adam the Wise took through the sands to the Southern Cry Temple.’ I touched the first path. ‘This one is where he had the vision that the Drought was coming.’ I touched the second. ‘This is the one where he found the white fig tree.’
Matty gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Pretty good. I figured it felt like that.’
I took my shirt off next, careful not to rotate my arm too much. I pointed to the bruise on my shoulder that Geb’s rod had given me. ‘Whatsit?’
Matty’s small fingers traced the outline of the bruise. ‘Dwarf camel.’
‘A camel?’ I smirked. ‘That’s all you see?’
Matty shook his head. ‘No. Course not. It’s a camel that carries the Frosts from the Patches to the Pyramid.’
I pretended to wince. ‘That’s one strong camel.’
Matty shook his head. ‘Frosts are almost as light as air.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘How would you know? Jadans aren’t allowed to touch them.’
‘Because they don’t fall ’smuch as the other Cold,’ Matty said, as though it were obvious. ‘They prolly don’t weigh a lot since they float in the sky so long.’
I chuckled. ‘You might be onto something.’
Matty lifted his chest off the wall so he could look across me to Moussa. ‘Hey, Moussa. Whatsit. Your turn.’
Moussa looked down at his feet, keeping his eyes decidedly off the piece of front wall reserved for the Patch Jadans. ‘I don’t really feel like playing.’
‘What? You didn’t get any marks?’ Matty asked.
Moussa gave a resigned shrug. ‘A few. I just don’t want to play.’
I gave Moussa a light nudge with my elbow. He shook his head, but I countered with a look that asked him to play along. At ten years old, Matty was still young enough to find beauty in such a world, and Moussa and I both knew that sort of innocence was something worth prolonging.
Moussa sighed, lifting off his shirt in a long pull.
Matty’s face dropped. I had to hold back my grimace.
Moussa’s chest was riddled with fresh bruises. It looked as if he’d been tossed down the Khat’s Staircase. Puffy welts wrapped around both sides of his stomach, and from my limited training with Abb, I thought Moussa would have at least one cracked rib.
Jadans weren’t allowed to get off the wall, so instead I turned to the side and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck, pulling his forehead against mine. ‘Sorry, brother.’
Matty had tucked himself back against the wall, his face mortified. Moussa leaned across me so he could give Matty a weak smile, his dry lips cracking. ‘Right, I thought we were playing whatsit? So whatsit?’
I looked over all the bruises, imagining the strength that must have been behind the blows. ‘It’s a song.’
Moussa nodded gently. ‘What song?’
‘We can call it the “Jadan’s Anthem”,’ I said, hoping he’d play into it. ‘It’s about time we had one of our own.’
Matty’s face lifted, a sly grin on his lips.
Howdin, who was standing on the other side of Moussa, shot us a fierce stare. ‘Don’t blashpheme like that.’
Moussa shrugged. ‘Listen. I’ll make sure the words won’t be blasphemy. Besides’ – he nodded to the main doors—‘no one’s going to hear.’
‘The Crier will hear,’ Howdin said, his face anxious, looking at the slats in the ceiling, the Sunlight finally retreating.
‘Here’s the thing. The Crier doesn’t listen to us,’ Moussa said with a huff, prodding at his bruises. ‘Closed Ears, too.’
Matty leaned forward, looking over the bruises. ‘Whatsit sound like, Moussa? Our song?’
Moussa finally cracked a smile, pointing to the bruise above his belly button. He sang out a long note, and my ears shuddered with delight. It’d been a long time since I had heard my friend sing, and I’d missed his voice.
‘The Jadan’s work upon the sands,’ Moussa sang, hopping from bruise to bruise on his stomach. Then he stopped, his burned lips searching for the fitting words.
‘Those who need the Cold?’ I offered.
‘Those who need the Cold,’ Moussa sang softly. He seemed satisfied, and moved his finger back to the first bruise, hopping along the painful spots:
‘The Jadan’s work upon the sands
Those who need the Cold
Family forever
Older than the old
Blessed