“Can you get it for me?”
She nodded, scampering off around the side of the cottage, returning a few seconds later with a decent-sized splitter.
Guyen winced. “Really? We’re doing this?”
Yemelyan grinned. “Right, girls, stand back, please.” They retreated several steps and he took aim. The axe thumped into the wood and bounced off. He dropped it and swore, rubbing his wrist. “What the hell is that thing made of?” he muttered. The trunk exhibited not so much as an indent.
“I think you need a bigger chopper,” Guyen observed wryly.
Yemelyan snorted. “You do. Smartarse.”
Guyen groaned. “Just put the man’s axe back and sort your life out. We have to get into town and deal with this Assignment business.”
Yemelyan sighed. “Fine. But I will get in that trunk if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You wouldn’t fit, brother.”
“Oh, very funny.” He rewarded the amusing quip with a punch on the arm. That always meant it was a good one.
They set off, the day bright and sunny, the air crisp, and loosing their simulacra to follow on behind, they crossed the bridge between the cliffs—the Impossible Bridge, as it was known. Far below, crashing waves broke around rocks where the river met the ocean. Along the east bank, the shipyard and port occupied ant-sized men busy sawing and hammering. Further upriver, the town was a patchwork quilt of red-tiled roofs. A gull flew low overhead, swooping out to sea as the bridge swayed unnervingly in the wind. Guyen touched the safety rail, glancing up at the monumental engineering for reassurance—tall ironwork jutting from both cliffs, high towers supporting ropes thick as tree stumps.
“This bridge is something,” he said. “How did they get the ropes all the way up there?”
Yemelyan shrugged. “Dunno, monkeys? If this is the kind of effort they put into a boondocks place like Tal Maran though, imagine what the rest of the country’s like. No wonder Sendalis rule the waves.”
That was far too much praise for the country of their oppressors. “I’m sure it’s an extremely well-constructed cesspit,” Guyen said.
“Positivity, brother.”
Guyen snorted. “What the hell are we doing here? When they find out where we’re from, they’ll give us the shittiest Assignment going, I just know it.”
Yemelyan tutted. “Calm down. We don’t need your temper drawing attention to us today. How legit do you think these papers are?” He tapped his pocket containing the citizenship documents Father had given them.
Guyen sniffed. “Not very. All right, I’ll be on my best behaviour.” Out to sea, a tall ship headed for port. The same navy bastards that attacked them in the dark? But had it really been their fault the ship sank? He wasn’t so sure. “Has it really come to this?” he grumbled. “Doing things the Sendali way?”
“We just need to suck it up until we find our feet,” Yemelyan said. “What choice do we have? We need to work.”
“I hate this place already.”
He offered an understanding grimace. “It might not be as bad as you think.”
“Yeah, it’ll be worse.”
“Think positive, arsewipe.”
Guyen let out an exasperated grunt. Toulesh folded violently back in.
Reaching the East Cliff, they headed down steps cut into the sheer chalk face, then followed Nazhedra’s directions into the centre of town. The local branch of the Assignments Office was a grey, soulless building set apart on two floors next to the corn exchange, as Nazhedra had described.
A young woman around their age stood behind a counter, dress impeccable and business-like, blonde hair tied tight in a bun. “Good morning,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”
Toulesh boosted himself invisibly up onto the counter, fixing her with a suspicious stare. “We’ve come to be assigned,” Guyen said.
She frowned. “You’re a bit old for that, aren’t you? Where are you from?”
“Krell.”
She turned to Yemelyan. “And you?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Same. We’re brothers, twins, in fact.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Guyen said. “What of it?”
“Nothing.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, only citizens may request Assignment.”
“We are citizens, through our mother.”
“You have proof of that, do you?”
Yemelyan laid their papers down on the counter.
She studied them for a moment, then looked up, eyes piercing crystal blue. “You know there’s a central register? If these are forgeries, they’ll arrest you.”
“12,995,466,” Guyen said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my citizen number.”
“I see.” She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you can write?”
“Of course,” he snapped, exhaustion from the journey bubbling over.
She scowled. “Very well, fill these in.” She took out a pile of forms, handing two over along with a quill and ink pot. A leaflet fell out of the pile, fluttering to the floor.
Guyen picked it up, catching the heading, Send Them Back, printed below a totem symbol made out of six animal heads. He read the first few lines.
Do you struggle to provide for your family? Has your pay been eroded by the influx of foreigners? You are not alone. Can your children walk the streets in safety? Do you sleep soundly in your bed? Do you fear the maddenings the pests spread? You are not alone. Rise up, reclaim your land.
He offered it back. “Yours?”
The girl frowned. “These things get everywhere.”
“What is it?”
“Echelism. Dead ideas best left to the Age of Sighs. Right-minded people have nothing to do with it.”
“No friends of ours then,” Guyen said.
She snorted. “Hardly. They think Binding should favour those of pure blood. That doesn’t include foreigners.” She ripped the leaflet into quarters. “To be honest, I feel sorry for people who think like that.” She threw the remains in a waste basket. Toulesh waved agitatedly at Yemelyan and Rikesh appeared They swarmed around her. Why the aggravation? She pointed at a bench next to the window. “You can sit over there.”
“Thank you,” Guyen said. Manners cost nothing.
She returned a tight smile and went back to tidying a shelf of files. After twenty minutes working their way through the complex forms, Guyen trotted back and cleared his throat. The girl scowled again, obviously a well-honed skill. She spent another minute dusting a perfectly clean row of files then sashayed over. “I’ll let the assessor know you’re here,” she said. “We are rather busy today though.”
“Busy?” Guyen asked, taking in the empty room.
“We’re expecting a visitor. Do you have your certificates?”
“What certificates?”
“Your Binding documents?” She narrowed her eyes. “You are bound, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Guyen said. “Never had a certificate though, or been asked for one.”
“Well, they’re obligatory in this country unless you want to end up in Karonac.”