“Only if you want to tell me.”
He didn’t want to open up to this stranger about something so painful, but she’d given up her room and deserved an explanation. “I used to have a younger sister. She was killed. It’s a long time ago now, but Mother always lays her a supper place. It’s her way of remembering.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
She finished tying the rope and dropped the bucket into the well. Guyen winched it down to water level, the stiff handle revolving with an irregular squeak.
“You mind if I ask what happened to her?” Evgeniya said.
He bit his lip. It wasn’t something he liked to remember. “The redcoats.”
“The army?”
His stomach knotted. “We were playing in a building abandoned by the rebels. Not that I knew anything about all that then, I was too young. The Sendalis didn’t know it was abandoned. They set fire to it, trying to kill whoever was inside. In the end they just got Kiani.”
“That was her name? It’s beautiful. If I ever have a daughter, that’s what I’ll call her.”
The rope fell slack. He stopped turning the handle. “They said it was an accident, but I’m not so sure they weren’t happy to see the next generation of Krellen rebels dead.”
“Oh, that’s an awful thing to say. They wouldn’t deliberately kill children.”
“No? A week before the redcoats murdered my sister, the rebels set fire to a local barracks, according to Mother. I think it was revenge, pure and simple. It was my fault. I took her in there.” A tear formed. He blinked it away. How could it still hurt so much after all these years? Kiani’s terrified screams and the black smoke still plagued his nightmares. If only he had died instead, but Toulesh had led him to safety.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Evgeniya said, her voice soothing. “You were only a kid.”
But he couldn’t let the pain leave, he’d vowed to hang onto it, to keep her memory alive. “I’m not sure my parents saw it like that. They needed someone to blame. Apparently, I was a mischievous child.” He winched the bucket up. “Gods! I was only six.”
“I’m sure they don’t hold you responsible.”
“That’s what it felt like.” He composed himself. “I tried to find her, but the smoke was too thick. Anyway, she suffocated and burned, and the only injury I got was my damn clamour.”
“Clamour?”
Shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now he’d have to explain. “That’s what I call it. You know like if you cover your ears, you can hear noises inside your head? It’s like that, only worse.”
“Can you hear it now?”
He focussed on the ever-present distraction. “Yes.”
“What does it sound like?”
“A high-pitched ringing, like whistling wind.”
“That sounds annoying.”
“You get used to it.”
“Oh.” She paused. “And are you still mischievous?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The bucket came back up. He lifted it onto the wall and untied the rope.
“I’ll carry it,” Evgeniya said.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”
“You think I’m weak cos I’m a girl, don’t you?”
“No, I’m just being polite. Repaying your hospitality.”
“There’s no need. You won’t be staying long anyway, will you?”
He pursed his lips. “We start work at the foundry tomorrow, then we’ll have coin, enough to find our own place.”
“Good.” She paused. “Not that I don’t like you, it’s just—”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I know, it’s cramped. It’s fine, we don’t want to stay a moment longer than we have to. We’re just grateful you’ve lent us your roof for a few days. Now, are you going to let me carry this thing?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
The girl had spirit. They’d have to let fate decide. He reached into his pocket for the fake silver coin, holding it up in the oil light. “I’ll flip you for the honour. Heads or harps?”
She frowned. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s not legal tender, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“But it will do perfectly well for settling an argument,” he said. He placed the oil lamp carefully on the well wall, it wouldn’t do to break it. “Call it.”
She huffed. “Harps then, I suppose.”
He tossed the coin up, catching it on the back of his hand. “Heads. Bad luck. And that’s pure chance, so you can’t accuse me of being sexist now, can you?”
She muttered a surly response. “No, I suppose not.”
He picked up the bucket.
6
The Magician's Gift
Molten steel cascaded down the channel, spitting fiery droplets, flowing into the mould, spilling over the side. It took some nerve to stand this close, the heat was something else. The leather apron the foundry had provided offered scant protection.
“Move the josel,” the foreman screamed, slapping Guyen about the head with his glove. Guyen pushed the spout along to the next mould, which began filling. The foreman rounded on Yemelyan. “Now, you—put it in the water.”
“But it’s on fire!”
“Just do it, you little shit.”
Yemelyan stooped down, pulling the full mould gingerly away with a long gripper.
“Careful.”
“He is being careful,” Guyen snapped.
“Don’t talk back to me, Krellen.”
Red mist descended. Guyen kicked his half-full mould. A slug of liquid metal jumped over the side, narrowly missing his boot. Yemelyan dropped his mould awkwardly in the water trough. Steam issued.
The foreman shook his head. “You won’t last long here. I’ll see to that.”
The two simulacra surrounded him, snarling in his face. Luckily, he was blissfully unaware. Guyen turned his attention back to the josel.
“Well, this rots hell,” he said, once the foreman had moved on. They’d been slaving away in this infernal nightmare for three weeks now. The foundry was hot, noisy and suffocating, an apocalyptic vision of the Holy Fires, if you believed in such dogma. Huge vats of molten iron smoked and sparked above them, suspended on vast pivots, and wherever you looked was something which might maim or kill you. The carts delivering ore and coal were constant, and to make matters worse, the foundrymen had discovered they were refugees, engendering a psychopathic disregard for their safety.
Today, they were casting billets, workable chunks of metal to be sent on to the foundry’s smithy, where they would be forged into longswords. Despite the conditions, filling the moulds wasn’t the worst job in the place, stoking the furnace took that credit. Men stumbled from that room red-raw and grim-faced. Every so often, the foreman would mention moving them down there. If he was trying to get them to work quicker, it was an effective strategy.
They’d cast a dozen more chunks of metal when the unfriendly bastard reappeared. “Right, shirker,” he said to Guyen, “put that down and go find Scaaco. The smithy’s short-staffed and there’s loading to be done.” Guyen scowled. The foreman laughed. “What, you gonna miss the place? Don’t worry, still be plenty of metal to pour when you get back.” He growled. “Get to it. Now.”