Guyen nodded to Yemelyan. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t be if you can help it,” he replied sourly.
Guyen made his way gratefully outside into the cool air and joined Scaaco, a typical foundryman—big, scarred, and unfriendly. The scrag informed him the militia were on their way to take delivery of a batch of swords. And that he had a bad back. They skirted the main building, passing the smithy, heading for the loading bay. The foundry was vast, the principal metalworks in the north. As well as casting steel, they made weapons—blades and gun parts—and ironworks for the shipyard.
A single white mare waited patiently inside the main gate, hitched to a cart, her nose in a hay bag. A few dozen swords lay piled up, ready to be loaded. Scaaco touched the small of his back, face screwed up at some supposed pain, and leaned up against the wall. He took out his pipe and pointed at the cargo.
Suppressing the urge to start a fight, Guyen went to begin loading. He took a sabre from its scabbard, testing the weight. The metal contained numerous imperfections, they’d stolen dozens better from dead Sendali army rankers when they were kids, learning how to defend themselves from the Unbound, secretly hoping to use one against a drunk redcoat late at night. Still, it was sharp enough and Scaaco wasn’t looking, too busy engrossed in his tabac. Perhaps you should cut the bastard’s head off, he thought. Get the timing just right and you might make a smoke ring. But then, such artistry probably wouldn’t go down well with the foreman.
He threw the sword in the cart, hating himself. They’d probably use it to cut down his countrymen.
Ten minutes later, all the weapons loaded, a small party rode in through the gate—red jackets, brown riding boots, sword pommels glinting—the militia. They were pristine compared to him and Scaaco, who more resembled chimneysweeps. One of the cadets was familiar—the one with the arrogant sneer who’d picked them up that first day. What was his name? Rossi?
They dismounted, and the others disappeared inside the administration block with Scaaco, leaving Rossi tending the horses.
“Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “What are you doing here?”
“Working, what does it look like?”
“You’ve been assigned?” His eyes went to the tattooed anvil, visible and healed well.
“What’s it to you?” The damn symbol was detestable, a leper’s mark. Most Sendalis had either long hair or high collars to cover them. He’d buy a new shirt soon, one which would spare his embarrassment.
“This place suits you,” Rossi crowed. “Rather you than me though, eh?”
“If you say so.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, I do say so.” He walked around the cart. “You load this, did you? Doesn’t look very secure.”
“What would you know about it?”
He grunted a contemptuous laugh, unsheathing his sword, then with a quick glance over at the administration block, slashed the horse’s tether. “You should have tied this animal better, Krellen.” He smacked her rear with the flat of his blade. She took off, dragging the cart after her, weapons clattering onto the road.
Guyen swore. “Fucking arsehole.”
Rossi grinned.
The foreman came rushing out with Scaaco, closely followed by the militia captain and his lieutenants. He threw his hands up in disgust. “Right, Krellen, this is your fault.”
Bastards. What could he do? There was no point saying anything, no one would believe a refugee foundryman over a well-heeled cadet. He retrieved the horse and cart, the Sendalis watching, Rossi smirking, and reloaded the weapons, passive-aggressive comments about the incompetence of foreigners ringing in his ears. By the time he’d finished, his head ached and the clamour buzzed. How good it would feel to pick up a blade and bury it in that scrag Rossi’s gut right now.
The militiamen remounted, one of them getting aboard to drive the cart. They headed out through the gate and Rossi sent back a sarcastic salute.
Fuck you. Blood rushed. Guyen’s heart missed a beat, clenching in his chest. The cadet cried out, falling back in the saddle. He stared in surprise at the snapped reins in his hand. Guyen laughed, wiping clammy palms on his apron. Toulesh glared.
What? You have to admit that was funny?
But the simulacrum wasn’t laughing. The clamour pinged wildly. It wasn’t usually this loud, it had only ever been this distracting once before, aboard the slavers’ ship, just before the thing had split in two.
No, that wasn’t you, you’re being paranoid.
He commanded Toulesh to return. The simulacrum folded in. The clamour returned to its usual high-pitched whine.
At the end of their shift, they went to see the foreman, only to be told they still weren’t getting paid. “A month in lieu,” he informed them.
Well, fuck him too. Toulesh buzzed around the man, seeing in vain if he could sniff out a simulacrum. He couldn’t, of course, the bitter old bastard would be well past having one.
Back at Zial’s, they again went through the ritual of laying the extra place for Kiani, and sat down to eat marinated lamb served with figs and rice. At least Zial and Father had been paid, and none-too-poorly judging by the expensive bottle of port they’d already sunk several goblets of.
“We had a visitor today,” Nazhedra said.
“You did, woman?” Zial glanced up, wiping gravy from his beard with a piece of bread.
“Yes, husband. Strange it was. There we were, wondering how cold and wet you must be up on the dam in this weather, when that croc of shite Knaxti knocks on the door to ask why you’re not at work.”
Zial exchanged a look with Father. “Change of plans today. We had business to take care of.”
“You’d better not test me, Zial. If you lose that job—”
“Bah! It pays shit anyway. Don’t you worry, me and Olvar have ideas to make real dough.”
Mother raised an eyebrow. Nazhedra huffed. “You won’t go taking risks with their future.” She nodded sharply at the three girls. The atmosphere was icy. “What kind of business?”
“Men’s business.”
She rose to clear the plates, glaring at her husband, but said no more.
It was a relief to finish eating and step into the yard for some air. Guyen perched on the trunk, the oil lantern for light, playing absentmindedly with the fake coin. Could they prise out the trunk’s gold inlays to sell? If only he could get his knife underneath, but he’d tried that to no avail. He tossed the coin up and landed it on the back of his hand. It lay heads-up. He did it again with the same result. He tried several more times. It would only ever land heads. It made no sense—even a weighted coin should land both sides some of the time. He spun it on the trunk instead. It revolved for ages then slowly died, wobbled, tipped over and landed heads-up again. He turned it over, staring at the harps side. Toulesh drifted away to sit on the low wall opposite.
He spun it again. Land on harps, he thought, gazing into the blur as the coin strobed between the two images. He felt for it, willing it, and the clamour rose, breaking out into those weird harmonics again. The coin flickered. He blinked. What the—
The clamour was silent. The coin lay harps-side-up.
It was cold. Toulesh was far away.
The thing about simulacra is you don’t miss them till they’re gone. They’re so much a part of you, you take them for granted. Most of the time you don’t notice them at all—when you’re sleeping or concentrating they usually fold in so tight as to be invisible—but to lose one altogether, it felt like losing your soul.