The girls huddled closer together. Nazhedra shook her head. “That’s not the first time we’ve seen black rain.” She touched the beads around her neck. “Some say it’s a sign of the end days.”
Zial laughed. “Nonsense, woman. Probably just sunspots or some such thing.” But he didn’t sound convinced. Guyen was too tired to ask what she meant by black rain. She couldn’t mean it literally. Eventually, mercy was shown and they were ushered into a backroom containing a double bed. Toys and dolls lined two rough, wooden shelves, and an array of feathery dreamcatchers festooned the window. The room was small. This would be a trial, what with Father’s snoring. Right now though, not even an earthquake would vanquish sleep. Mother and Father took the bed, the twins making do with straw mats on the floor, and for a short while, Guyen lay listening to the sounds of the house and the daughters in the next room moaning about giving up their sleeping quarters. Then sleep came.
The next day, Nazhedra provided a breakfast of malt bread and hot cacao—the invigorating brew nutty with a hint of cinnamon. Guyen perched on a stool brought in from the yard, chairs being at a premium. He sipped the cacao, smiling at the three daughters, nine, twelve and fourteen, at a guess.
“Would you like some honey on that bread, dear?” Nazhedra asked.
“Please,” Guyen said.
She spread some for him and the conversation turned to work. There was no time to waste, they couldn’t rely on Zial’s charity. “You’ll need to find the Assignments Office,” Nazhedra said. “It’s in the old town, next to the corn exchange. I’ll scribble some directions for you.”
“What happens there?” Yemelyan asked.
“It’s where you’ll get your Assignment, dear.”
Yemelyan swapped a confused look. “What’s that then?”
“That’s how they do things here,” eldest daughter Evgeniya said. She sat brushing her hair in the corner. “They decide what you’re allowed to do for a job. They’re very strict about it.”
Zial snorted. “Damn system. Always trying to put people in boxes.”
Yemelyan smiled pleasantly. “Why not just let people find a job they’re good at?”
“Control, son,” Zial said, “and their damn Binding. No one’s a freeman in this country.”
Rikesh and Toulesh, sat cross-legged by the door, threw up their vaporous hands in disgust. Yemelyan voiced their concerns. “What does Binding have to do with what job you can take?” he asked.
Evgeniya answered. “The concoction they Bind people with here makes you good at some things, bad at others. People work better if they get the right Assignment, that’s what they say. And they say it’s bad luck if you ain’t matched up right.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” Zial said.
Father grunted a laugh. “This country didn’t get where it was by chance, Zee. It’s all connected—Faze—Binding—Assignments.”
“Yeah, but no one knows how,” Zial said. “That’s the joke of it.”
“I’ll give you that,” Father agreed. “Faze is a mystery. But you have to admit, Sendalis are fucking good at what they’re good at.”
The girls smirked. Mother frowned. “Olvar, language please.”
“Their rotten Assignments won’t help when it all goes to shit,” Zial muttered. Father shook his head, sending a warning.
“More cacao dear?” Nazhedra asked.
Guyen offered his cup. The refreshing brew was the only thing injecting life into his weary limbs. “So what sort of thing’s on offer at this Assignments Office?” he asked.
Zial laughed. “Offer, son? There’s no offers, only orders.”
“Could I get something to do with books?”
“I doubt that, boy. Not with your accent.” They’d been speaking Sendali Common since they’d arrived, Zial and his family fluent. Guyen prided himself on his command of the language, he’d spoken it as long as he could remember, despite living in Krell. He’d never considered he had an accent till now.
“Assignment runs in families, dear,” Nazhedra said gently. She turned to Mother. “How were you assigned, Livia?”
Mother looked up. Her eyes flicked to Zial. “My Talent is Seamstress. I shall visit the local milliners and ask after some work.”
She didn’t look capable of making it to the bridge in her current state, let alone into town. The voyage, disaster, and long trek had affected her worse than any of them.
“You’ll go when you’re recovered, love,” Father said.
Nazhedra exchanged a guarded frown with her husband. She’d be less than happy about new, coinless mouths to feed.
Zial grunted. “At least you lads’ll earn decent pay. Three times what your father can get. They set a minimum wage, it’s a benefit of being a citizen.”
“So don’t mess it up,” Father added.
Mother smiled tightly. “Olvar will put in an application for citizenship, won’t you dear?”
Zial raised an eyebrow. “You’ll come see Knaxti, Olvar, he always needs more men at the dam.” Migrants laboured on the construction three miles upstream on the Tal. It was black market work, hence the poor pay, but Father wasn’t the kind to shirk his responsibilities.
A short while later, Zial and Father headed out. Guyen helped clear up then joined Yemelyan in the backyard. The lazy bastard played skittles with the two youngest daughters, bowling a string ball at a row of brightly coloured wooden dolls. He was good with kids—one of his better qualities. The rescued trunk sat where they’d dumped it next to a pungent herb bush, Zial an amateur herbalist judging by the jars of dried leaves inside. Guyen wandered over. How the trunk opened was a mystery, any hinges hidden. As for the lock mechanism, that was anyone’s guess.
“How are we going to get inside this thing?” he muttered.
Yemelyan threw his ball at the doll skittles. “Huzzah!” he exclaimed as they fell. The youngest daughter sent him a dark stare. He turned round. “Shame we ain’t got a key,” he said.
Guyen quirked an eyebrow. “And where would you put it if you did?”
“Up your—”
Guyen coughed, glancing at the girls. They doubtless weren’t as innocent as they looked, but it was too early for bawd humour.
Yemelyan smirked. “We could throw it off the cliff? That might pop the lid.”
Guyen groaned. “Yeah, and destroy anything inside.”
“Oh.” He reconsidered. “What about an axe then? Maybe Zial has one.”
“That won’t do it much good either. It’s a nice piece of furniture, I was thinking we might sell it. Intact.”
Yemelyan waved at the window to their tiny room. “How long do you want to sleep on the floor? There might be enough coin inside this thing to get our own place.”
He had a point. How long could the two families coexist in such a tight space before something gave? Not long probably. And they could hardly sell a locked trunk.
Yemelyan turned to the middle daughter, Osetya. “Hey, sweetheart, you know where your pa keeps his axe?”
“In the wood store,” she squeaked.