I didn’t, but Frosts only fell once every few weeks, so the chances were slim anyway.
In the morning, hundreds of Patch Jadans would scramble through those brown sands, digging up all the Cold for the Nobles whilst taskmasters would watch, their whips at the ready, making sure it was all collected.
I tried to imagine the time before the Great Drought, when Cold was Cried throughout the entire world. When we were young, we were told stories of lands flushed green and alive, where you could walk a hundred feet in any direction and pick fruit as big as your fists. Where the Cold would break on mountain rocks, cooling the air and the boiling Rivers, so that you could swim, and drink straight from the current. And every city had bountiful Cry Patches, their gardens swollen and lush.
Now Cold only fell for the Nobles here in Paphos.
Everyone else was unworthy.
I sighed, knowing it wasn’t good to dwell on a past I couldn’t even remember. Eight hundred years later and the world was lucky that Cold still fell at all.
I rolled back over, the hard callouses on my palms making it easy for me to shuffle quickly and quietly without tearing my skin. Shadows flitted silently on the nearby rooftops, crawling in a similar manner. Some figures chanced moving at a crouch, their knees hugging their shoulders, but taskmasters knew to look up to the roofs. Keeping flat was my best chance of survival.
Most Jadans huddled around the Butcher’s Quarter, hoping to gnaw on the piles of old lizard bones, but I never went pilfering over in that part of town. The ones that sought to lord over the old meat had traded in mercy long ago, and rancid scrap wasn’t worth a brick lodged in the back of the head.
I made my way towards the Sculptor’s Quarter, knowing these alleyways wouldn’t be so crowded. A Sculptor’s leavings were never very satisfying for a hungry Jadan, but I needed materials for the board game Matty and I were creating, and every once in a while I’d find a little ceramic carving. My young friend had the rules just about finished, but we needed a few more pieces to round out both sides of play.
The Sculptor buildings were works of art themselves, with statues of famous Khats of the past chiselled into their stone walls. A Jadan was supposed to drop to their knees if they looked directly at an image of the Khat, but since I was already crawling, I decided there was no need.
The pile of rubbish closest to the back door of Piona’s Moulds looked most promising, so I climbed down to the alley, giving my invention a stern look. ‘Find me something good,’ I whispered.
It obliged.
A ping … a barely cracked chisel.
A harsh scraping … three sheets of sandpaper, still a bit rough.
A thrum … a small chunk of marble that I think might have once been a Khat’s nose, with powerful, flaring nostrils. The chunk was a bit big as it was, but I figured I could shape it up and let Matty decide its fate in the game.
By the time I’d reached the Ancient Quarter my knees were bruised, but my bag had a satisfying heft.
Only three Ancient Shops existed, large domes of white limestone, with curved doors locked by chain upon chain. These shops were only ever frequented by the Highest of Nobles, as the domes contained relics from before the Great Drought, sold for extraordinary sums.
Legend had it that their shelves were stocked with metal machines which moved on their own, hourglasses which told time without sand, and lanterns which needed no fire to survive. The walls were without windows, and every time I passed by I wished I could invent something which could help me hear through stone.
My scuttling was halted at the sound of laughter coming from below.
‘So I told my father,’ a young Noble slurred, popping a Wisp into his wineskin. He downed a swig, red liquid sloshing down the front of his fine silk shirt. ‘I have no idea where the Chill went! Must be one of the new Jadans. I believe you’ve purchased a bad batch of slaves at auction, dear man.’ He held up a fat bejewelled ring for his friend to see. ‘Yes. Definitely stolen by one of the slaves. Oops.’
Grinding my teeth, I moved on.
The walls of the Garden Quarter came into view, fifty feet high and smooth as glass. The place could house three of my barracks, and I could only imagine the paradise I’d see if I could somehow catapult myself over their walls. There would be more figs than we would be allowed in a lifetime, not to mention the grand things we never got to eat, like orangefruit, plump grapes, baobab fruit, and Khatmelons.
Carrying on, I passed the row of Imbiberies. Most Noble festivities were held in this Quarter, constituted of lively shops only open at night, serving mead and music. I paused to listen to the melodies escaping from the windows, but I was spurred onward by the crack of a taskmaster’s whip, followed by a high-pitched pleading.
A few more stubbed fingers later, I finally reached my favourite spot, landing softly on my feet. The Smith Quarter were situated on the far west side of the city, removed so the loud bangs didn’t bother anyone. The back alleys were studded with anvils, as the kiln fires made the buildings too hot to work in all day. The waste ditches were always plentiful, filled with oily mounds of boilweed waiting to bestow gifts.
I manoeuvred the Staff into the heart of the biggest heap, my chest tingling with anticipation. After some heavy sifting, the sounding orb made a series of happy pings.
An old hammerhead, bent and rusty.
A chunk of bendy tin.
Half a dagger hilt.
Five links of chain, still attached.
A rusty hinge.
My bag expanded and my chest filled with the one good warmth this world can offer. I wanted to kiss my invention, but fearing what my cracked lips might taste, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the World Crier instead.
Even though the Khat’s Gospels assured us his Eyes were closed to Jadankind, I was thankful all the same. The Crier above never plagued me for being out after curfew, and for this I was always grateful.
I thrust the Staff in one last time, all the way up to my knuckles, my wrist straining to pull it through the pile. The exhausted muscles in my arm groaned until at last the orb gave a shout, long and high.
I frowned, not recognizing the sound.
It took a few pulls for the teeth to clamp around the mystery object, and with careful speed, up came a miracle.
Or a disaster.
Breath caught in my throat, and my knees went weak as I picked up the Shiver with shaky hands.
It was more Cold than I was rationed in a month.
My brow prickled with sweat. I often came into contact with Shivers, but never like this. Never one that I could keep for myself. Smuggling bits and pieces home was one thing, but if anyone found a Shiver in my possession, my body would be the first to be hurled by the dead-carts into the dunes.
I brought the beautiful round of Cold closer to my face, entranced by its lovely sheen.
A part of me knew I might get away with keeping it. I could shave off pieces and share them with the rest of the Jadans in my barracks. I could tinker with it for hours.
Maybe even use it for my Idea.
My fingers trembled as I weighed my options. This was a once in a lifetime find. Once in a hundred lifetimes. My vision went light, my body swaying beneath me as my balance faltered. Taskmasters were out there, and I had to decide quickly.
My forehead beaded with more of my namesake sweat, my heart throbbing with the terrible decision.
I tossed the Shiver back on the pile, seething with frustration.
I’d heard enough warnings throughout my life about us Jadans trying to keep any Cold for ourselves. Often these stories ended in curses that melted our eyes, and angry spirits rising up from the deepest cracks of the Great Divide