“Karonac?”
“Where they fix the Unbound.” She left it hanging. “Perhaps the Mistress will see you anyway, I don’t know. You’ll have to wait.” She nodded at the bench.
So they sat back down, opposite a poster encouraging the citizenry to report the Unbound to the authorities. Several minutes later, fidgeting took hold. They waited some more. Bored, Guyen turned out the pockets of his brine-damaged jacket. His flint, some stones, and the magician’s silver coin—he’d forgotten about that. It was useless as currency, counterfeit judging by the rogue casting, the harps side pressed upside-down in relation to heads. He spun it absentmindedly on the window sill. It landed heads. “Reckon we could spend this?” he asked Yemelyan.
“No. Put it away. You’ll get us arrested.”
He spun it again. It landed heads again. He looked up, the girl frowned over. The door behind the counter opened, and an older woman, the assessor presumably, peered out. She wore the thinnest eyeglasses, frames like silk threads. “I’ll see them now, Ariana,” she trilled. “Before she arrives.”
A man in tan uniform lounged in the corner of the assessor’s office. “Don’t mind Adjunct Kerger,” the assessor said, “it’s just regulation.” She waved them to sit on two chairs in front of her desk and laid down a thick red book, the silver lettering on the spine titling it Book of Assignment. Twelfth precinct. She sat across from them, exuding irritation.
“I’m Mistress Uther,” she said. “I will be assessing you today.” She scanned the completed forms. “You’re from Krell, is that right? And you received the Binding there?”
“Yes,” Guyen said.
“Yet you have no certification?”
The adjunct tapped his fingers on the table, glaring out beneath bushy eyebrows. Toulesh crossed his arms, remonstrating with Rikesh just behind them. It took some concentration not to glance back, the apparitions doubly distracting today.
Mistress Uther’s quill hovered over the paper. “Your mother has a Maker Assignment, I see. Very well, we shall proceed.”
Yemelyan twitched. “Proceed with what?” he asked.
Uther frowned. “Why, the Test of Assignment, of course. I always begin with measurement—if you wouldn’t mind standing?”
Exchanging a bemused look, the twins complied. She produced a tape measure, noting their heights, waists and head size in the book, then judged their skin colours using a chart. Then she came up close, noting facial features, brow prominence, cheekbones, measurements from hairline to nose, from ear to mouth. She peered into Guyen’s eyes. “Green,” she muttered. “How strange.”
What was the point of all this?
She signalled a scale in the corner. “If you please.”
They took turns as she arranged stones on the pan, noting their respective weights. How dismal! What were they? Cattle? Perhaps they’d be sold at some meat market, put into slavery at a price worthy of their poundage.
She ushered them back to their chairs and took out a scroll, then bombarded them with questions testing math and language. It was impossible to concentrate with the adjunct’s off-putting tuts and the two simulacra protesting at the questions like they took the Test themselves. This felt like being judged for the rest of your life without knowing by which rules. It was horseshit.
The scroll slid back into its tube and she produced another book, this one filled with inked drawings—more smudges than sketches. She asked what they could see. It was always an animal of some kind. Then she fired word associations at them, then bamboozled them with nonsense questions. Which is sweeter, green or yellow? What does laugher look like? Until this point, they’d answered flawlessly, but questions like these had no correct response. They weren’t supposed to pass this test.
Eventually, she finished her notes and closed the book. “I’m assigning you both as Makers,” she proclaimed.
Guyen exchanged a nonplussed look with Yemelyan. “Er, what does that mean?”
She tutted. “You do know how Assignment works, don’t you?”
“I thought it was so we could get a job,” Yemelyan said.
“There’s more to it than that.” She huffed. “Assignment is a calling, a devotion.” Toulesh and Rikesh muttered silent, disparaging comments. Guyen stared straight ahead. “Maker,” she continued, “is the oldest of the six Prime Talents, and covers most of the practical vocations. It’s a fine tradition, some of our most illustrious leaders have been Makers.”
That sounded all right. You’ve always considered yourself illustrious.
“So, what job do we get?” Yemelyan asked.
“The closest Maker Talent I can fit you both with is Metallurgy,” she said. “I shall put you down for the foundry. You’ll fit in there.”
How depressing. A foundry? Smelting iron? That sounded like hard labour. Guyen dug his nails into his palms, suppressing the urge to jump up and flip the table. He sat forwards. Perhaps if she saw how keen he was for an alternative… “There must be something else?” he pleaded. “Didn’t we do well with the Test?”
“Positions are scarce, I’m afraid.” She glanced at Yemelyan. “And your scores weren’t so good.”
“Weren’t so—”
“Be thankful for small mercies,” she interrupted. “Many assessors wouldn’t have seen you at all, not at your age. At least you may earn a living now.”
The door rattled and the blonde girl peered around the frame. “She’s here,” she hissed.
Mistress Uther jumped to her feet. “I’ll contact head office about your Binding certification, but we may as well get you marked up in the meantime. My assistant will send you to Old Jovey for the correct brands. Metallurgy for both, please, Ariana. Get them out of here.”
Marked up? Guyen thought. Ah yes, the Assignment mark—like Mother’s.
The girl ushered them from the office, passing a small entourage coming the other way. Toulesh suddenly folded in as the room took on a peculiar chill. A finely dressed woman sailed past, sleek and slender, hair flowing auburn, vanilla perfume sweet. Two black-cloaked bodyguards followed her.
She nodded to the girl. “Good morning, Ariana.”
“Good morning, High Mistress,” the girl replied.
A carriage waited outside the office, a team of six black horses at its front. A six-pointed silver star adorned the coach’s charcoal-grey door, each spike a different design. It was familiar, the same symbol which marked the travel dockets they’d boarded the cursed ship with.
“What’s that?” Guyen asked. “The star with the six spikes?”
“The Star of Devotion?” The girl frowned. “How can you not know that?”
“Well, we have been in your country for two sunrises,” he said. “I suppose we should know everything about it by now.” She needed to work on her attitude, although her scowl suggested she got the sarcasm, a rarity in most Sendalis. “What the hell is a Devotion anyway?”
“You haven’t heard of the Devotions?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Seriously? One Devotion for each Prime Talent? No?” She offered a despairing look. “They’re the government.”