“So who was that woman?”
“The High Mistress, Jal Belana. Devere’s wife.”
“Who’s he?”
“Gods!” she snapped. “Do you know nothing? Devere? Culture Prime?”
“Culture?”
“It’s one of the Prime Talents, signified by that mark on the star’s second spike, as you call it.”
“And she’s important, is she?”
“Someone to know if you want to get anywhere. And a houseguest of mine at the moment.”
“Ooh,” Yemelyan said, “you do run in high circles.”
She snorted. “Compared to you two, a rat runs in high circles.” She pursed her lips. “I hope you boys are lucky. You might find life here a trial otherwise.”
Guyen smiled. “We met you, didn’t we?”
She hesitated, the slightest suggestion of a blush reddening her cheeks. “Look, there’s no need to get branded,” she said. “You can get inked if you prefer, there’s nothing to say you can’t.” A tattoo adorned her neck, a set of scales peeking out beneath her white collar.
“I’d prefer that,” Guyen said.
“Think I’ll stick with branding,” Yemelyan said. “Make a man of me.”
She sent him a dark look. “Fine. Each to their own.” She scribbled on the pre-stamped chits. “Next to the port, ask for Old Jovey.” She handed them over. “Have a nice life.” She hurried back inside.
5
One Place Extra
Some hours later, the smells from Nazhedra’s stove had Guyen’s mouth watering. A spicy rabbit stew bubbled away, filling the air with the lavender and cinnamon aromas of Grandmother’s house. She was long gone now, of course. The fire roared, keeping away the evening’s chill, but the draw from the chimney was poor and smoke billowed into the parlour at regular intervals. It was hot and stuffy, so overcrowded they may as well have been sitting on one another’s laps.
Father slouched in the single armchair beside Guyen. He was in a grizzly mood, having just finished his first day at the dam. It had been hard work, and he and Zial had returned to the cottage like a storm, already worse for wear on the drink they’d consumed on the walk back.
“I spent most of the day trying not to fall off that blasted scaffold,” Father moaned, taking another swig of poteen. He’d definitely had enough, but didn’t think so. He adjusted his eye patch. “What’s your man’s name, Zee, the smartass?”
“Knaxti,” Zial said.
“Yeah, him. What an arsehole. I asked for a better safety rope and he told me to f—” Mother coughed. “He told me to get lost. How would he like to carry stone up there? It’s a deathtrap. I should have thumped him.”
“You want to be careful,” Zial said. “Get on his wrong side and he’ll make your life hell. He’s got connections with the town council.”
“Town council?” Father scoffed. “What can they do?”
“Ban you from the labour pool, for one thing. I don’t think begging will suit you, Olvar.”
“Pah! It’s only a stopgap. Our luck will change soon enough.” They shared a meaningful look. Something unspoken between them. What were they up to?
Guyen risked a sideways glance at Zial’s daughters. The middle one stared at Yemelyan. Every so often, he slipped down the dressing covering his new brand, exposing the bubbled flesh. She looked away in disgust each time, much to Yemelyan’s delight. The eldest daughter, Evgeniya, smiled tentatively over. Guyen nodded back, absentmindedly touching his own neck, self-conscious of the matching symbol Old Jovey had tattooed on him. He’d used a special ink to make the Assignment mark unalterable. The burning sensation was only just subsiding.
Father planted an elbow in his ribs. “What’s the matter with you?” he slurred.
Guyen met his eyes, forcing his hand down to his lap. “Nothing.”
“Hurts does it?”
“Not really.” That was a lie. It was all he could do to not try scratching the pain away.
Father leaned in. “We’ll be all right, son. Soon be out of here, you’ll see.”
“You’re drunk, Father.”
He glanced at the mark. “It’s quite fetching really.” He grinned. “It’s good to know you’ll be earning, eh, should anything happen to me?”
“Is that likely?”
His eyes flicked to Mother helping Nazhedra prepare supper. “Nah.” He took another swig and clapped Guyen on the back, offering the flask. “Have a drink. Take the edge off.”
“No thanks.”
“Not scared of a drab of hard liquor, are you? Don’t you want to be a drunk like your old man?”
Guyen scowled. Regular drink was just fine, but this stuff smelled rank. He accepted the flask anyway, keen to shut him up, and took a swig. Toulesh slapped his hand down on the mantelpiece, panting. At least the burning liquor offset the neck pain.
Old Jovey had insisted that once healed, the tattoo would be identical to the anvil symbol he’d burned into Yemelyan’s neck with a red-hot iron. It came with a small star inked directly above it, positioned at the first degree as he’d put it, denoting Metallurgy as a Maker Assignment. In theory, they’d be able to take any work associated with metalcraft, although the foundry job starting in the morning, shovelling coal into a furnace, would offer no opportunity for advancement. That was certain.
Nazhedra looked over from the stove to where Mother laid the table. “That’s too many places, dear.”
She looked up. “No, that’s right. Ten places.”
“But there are nine of us.”
“I always lay an extra place.”
“Do you?” Nazhedra laughed, not unkindly, but short on patience. “Why on earth would you do that, dear?” Guyen tensed. This again.
Father jumped up. “Here, come sit next to me, Liv, someone else can do that.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Olvar.”
Nazhedra’s hands went to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Livia, I forgot. How cruel of me. Of course you must set a place.”
Mother slumped in a chair and began to sob. It was all too much for her. It was too much for everyone. The small room became tiny.
“Think I’ll try getting that trunk open,” Yemelyan said, getting to his feet.
“We need water,” Evgeniya said.
“I’ll help you,” Guyen said.
They let themselves out into the yard, leaving Mother crying in Father’s arms. It was good to get outside despite the cold night. Evgeniya picked up the lantern at the backdoor and pushed out the side gate. Guyen followed her. Zial’s cottage was one of a row. The shutters in the other cottages were closed, light streaming out of cracks into the dark lane. They walked to the well on the corner where the lane met the main road. A distant train of lights approached from the west. A caravan, more traders probably, the route was a busy one. Guyen held the lantern for Evgeniya to see, as she tied the bucket handle to the winch rope.
She glanced up. “What was that all about?”
Guyen hesitated. “Are you sure you want to know?”