I sighed. It was time to go.
I packed up my things and strapped the Claw Staff back to my thigh. Taking one final glance into the alley just in case, I began crawling the long expanse of rooftops back to my barracks. If I was lucky I’d get a few hours of sleep, enough to take the edge off.
I’d just crossed into the Garden District when I saw her.
She was lying flat on her stomach, just like I was, her body huddled on a nearby roof. I wanted to call out, but I wasn’t sure if she was lying motionless because there was a taskmaster lurking in the alley below. My heart began to pound in my chest, nervous for what I might say to her.
I crept over to her, slowly, so the waxy paper wouldn’t rustle in my boilweed bag. Shuffling up from behind, chest hammering, I noticed she looked smaller than I remembered, and her uniform was dirtier. She remained still. I picked up a few pebbles and tossed them forward so they’d land just beside her legs.
No reaction.
I couldn’t tell if she was just dismissing the stones, or if she was unconscious with heatstroke. I took a chance and lifted myself to my knees, jolting my head from side to side, but the street seemed clear as far as I could tell, so I gritted my teeth and stood up, rushing over to her body.
Then I stopped short. The body wasn’t hers.
And it was dead.
Kneeling down, I extended my Claw Staff and rolled the corpse over. The boy’s head had a long piece of boilweed slung over one eye. I recognized him as the feral prowler from last night. I had to put a hand over my mouth to stifle my choking, wondering how the few beetles crawling over his face had been able to devour so much of his remaining eye.
The boy’s limbs were stiff, the blood having pooled in the lower half of his body, and I knew there was a chance he’d been lying there for most of the night. I spun around looking for a loose brick or big chunk of stone. Finding a piece on the next rooftop, I tapped beside the body, trying to scare away anything that might sting or snap from the folds of skin.
‘Family,’ I whispered, making sure the boilweed sling was still tight around his head. Manoeuvring the eyepatch revealed something shiny and smooth tucked away in the empty socket, and I realized that’s where the boy must have hidden the items precious to him. He was an Inventor in his own right. He’d had a need and had created a solution. It was crude, and simple, and beautiful; and although I yearned to know what sort of plunder he’d been keeping in there, I thought it best to let the boy carry his secrets into the darkness.
Making sure the nearest alley was deserted, I rolled the body to the edge of the roof, stepping clear of the little brown insects. One big heave and he was in the air, a hard thud following below shortly after.
In the morning, the dead-cart Jadans would patrol the alleys, but not the rooftops. The boy deserved to rest in the sands with our other fallen kin.
There were dozens of different reasons why he might have died, all unfair, and all perfectly believable. He was born Jadan, which meant he was born in debt. A Noble had probably demanded his eye for some unintended slight, and thus doomed the boy to a very short, very desperate life of scavenging half-blind in the darkness. Anger seethed in my chest. My hands balled into fists, stopping tears that begged to be released. This boy wasn’t alive eight hundred years ago. He had nothing to do with the sins behind the Great Drought, and he didn’t deserve to reap the punishment. None of us did. But still, the Crier continued to forsake us.
Scuttling away, I touched the waxy fabric in my bag, deciding I should use the opaque material for something else. Something less offensive to the Crier. But it was hard, knowing how much needle and gut Abb had in the healing box, how easily I could stitch the body of the Idea together. How perfect it would be.
Jadans could die anywhere, and for anything. There didn’t need to be a reason. Really, I should just take the leap, considering most other paths had us ending up like the eyepatch boy anyway. The Crier hadn’t cared about my other inventions. The crank-fans went against tradition, too, alleviating some of our suffering; and I had about a dozen of those.
My fingers trembled, thinking about putting the crushing chamber of the Idea together. If the Crier didn’t like what I was planning, then He wouldn’t have let me get this far.
Perhaps His Eye genuinely was closed to the Jadan people.
Either way, my feet itched to step into the unknown.
Five days later I stood on my corner, back hunched against the sizzling sky, thinking again about the three Wisps.
The Gospels told us to focus on one thing only during Procession day: the mercy of the Khat, and how he’d saved the Jadan people from extinction. Though I was supposed to reflect on the fact that I wouldn’t have any Cold without his benevolence, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done.
I hadn’t been able to help myself.
While bringing the Idea to life, I’d fallen into something of a trance, my fingers moving by themselves, my mind simply following them. The tinkering had started slowly, hesitantly, but as the night went on, starlight diving through the slats to encourage my work, things began to feel right. More right than anything else I’d created.
Which was clearly wrong.
I’d finished the Cold Wrap in the early hours of the morning, everything coming together better than I could ever have hoped. The design was simple enough: I’d fashioned two layers of waxy paper into a garment that wrapped around my chest. Thanks to Abb I knew how to stitch a wound properly, and so I was able to sew the layers airtight, leaving a bit of space in between the sheets. With a small metal grate, some springs, gears, and skill, I’d tinkered together a small chamber to crush the Wisps, which I put on the side of the Wrap.
The Idea was similar to Mama Jana’s Cold Bellows, where the Wisps could be crushed throughout the day, slowly spilling the Cold; but in this case, instead of the Cold going into the air, it would filter inside the Wrap itself, meaning I could wear it under my uniform and secretly keep myself cool throughout the day.
That was the theory, at least.
I still hadn’t been able to get myself to try it out, my hands trembling each time I touched the crushing lever, but I didn’t know how much longer I might be able to refrain.
Once I used the Wrap, there was no going back. This was a blatant disregard for a Divine decree. This was blasphemy and rebellion, all rolled into one garment. The Crier had forbidden Jadans from having Cold any more for a reason. He wanted us to feel the burn of His Brother Sun for eternity. Yet, there was still no sign of his discontent.
A sheen of sweat covered my forehead just from the thought. I wanted to wipe it away, but I didn’t dare move in the presence of so many taskmasters, Priests, and Nobles.
The Procession was the most popular event in Paphos, and there were eyes everywhere. Every initial Khatday of the month, the Street Jadans were reminded of what happened to those who broke one of the first three rules.
Caught out at night: chained in the Procession.
Found with stolen property: chained in the Procession.
Off the corner without a Noble token: chained in the Procession.
Arch Road was now filling with spectators, all waiting to watch the Vicaress do her work. Some Nobles even made a full day out of it, following the Procession throughout each Quarter, stretching out the entertainment.
Finely dressed Noblewomen stood in little groups, holding their colourful display of parasols and chatting about all the pain the dirty slaves deserved. They drank flavoured water and ate orangefruit, scattering the precious peels on the road. I could smell the baking citrus, and my mouth grew even more parched. High Noblemen in gleaming white