“Sylvi?”
“I’ve trucked the pass,” I tell him. “But not this close to the Flux, and never with a trailer.”
“The snow, yeah?”
I nod. “It’s magicked somehow, the snow in the pass. It does something to rubber tires, eats through them. I’m sincerely hoping Hyla has a Paradyian answer to that problem.”
The cab goes quiet as we turn south, both of us lost in our thoughts. As slow as the traffic is, Hex Landing isn’t large and it’s not long before we’re skirting the trees and turning onto the main stretch.
I DON’T LIKE IT HERE, Winter groans. IT REMINDS ME OF YOUR MOTHER.
She’s not spoken much to me today, not directly, and I nearly jump at her voice. I cut my eyes at Kyn, wondering if he’s heard her too, but a moment later I feel the hot burn of her in my chest, and I know her words were for me alone.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if she’s talking solely to me or if she’s allowed others in on the conversation. Unless they speak Kerce, they wouldn’t understand what she’s saying, but Winter’s more than words and wind. She’s a chill that clings to everything. She’s power. And, like all great powers, she likes her companionship recognized. If she’s talking to you, you’ll know.
I can’t answer her aloud, not with Kyn in the cab, but she’s not the only one who hates Hex Landing. For me, it’s the worst kind of nostalgic being back here. It always is. The view is far too similar to the one I had as a child, hiding under the wood stove, peering out at the town center from between the slats of Mistress Quine’s cabin. Her place sat a little deeper in the woods, the hustle and bustle farther away, and yet bigger to my child eyes. Louder somehow.
Every log, every nail of that cabin is gone now—Winter saw to that—but beyond the windshield, little has changed in the twelve years since I moved away.
The storefronts are perhaps more weathered, and the townsfolk too. Miners trudge up and down the wooden walkway in tired groupings. Shift workers punched out after a long night of digging, looking for a drink or a bite to eat before they catch a few hours’ sleep and start again. There’s no shortage of kol miners here, but it’s rig drivers who make up the bulk of the clientele splashing down coin in the town center.
They loiter in front of the petrol station, chatting up the pleasure girls still made up from last night, spilling out of taverns up and down Rigger’s Row. Out of habit, I scan the town for Bristol’s ugly yellow plow, but it’s not here. If he and Lenore passed through, they’re long gone now.
Just past Rigger’s Row, the road turns again and up from the barren landscape shoots a string of bunkhouses. The mine yard sits to the west, halted mining equipment collecting snow out front. Tin-roofed structures laden with white powder stretch all the way to the mine entrances.
But where is everyone?
It’s too quiet. Too still to be the site of the Majority’s flagship mining operation.
And then we see them.
Kol miners lining the road to our left and right. Unlike those wandering the town center, looking for food and drink, these laborers clearly don’t have any standing with the Majority. They’re underfed and underclothed, likely indentured servants or lesser citizens who couldn’t find work elsewhere. Their coveralls are smeared head to toe in kol, black dust shimmering in Winter’s light. It’s not just the standard dusting that comes with the job either. This is intentional. Excessive. And dangerous.
“What in Begynd’s name?” Kyn whispers. “They’ve killed them.”
My stomach rises to my throat, the taste of bile sharp on my tongue. “Probably,” I say, swallowing it down. “One way or another.”
The effects of raw kol range from mild hallucinations to full-on madness, depending on the length and intensity of the exposure. But kol dust is also addictive. It was the cravings that killed Lenore’s ma and it’s what keeps her father chained to the refinery at the Stack.
I switch off the heater. Best keep the kol outside.
Despite its hazardous nature, it’s our most valuable commodity. Kol is a mineral that amplifies things, makes them more than what they are. It’s used in all sorts of goods: cosmetics, medicine, petrol. But of all the islands on the Wethyrd Seas, it can be found solely in the mountains of Layce and, as such, only the Majority is allowed to mine it. They tell us it’s so the council can ensure the proceeds benefit all the islands under their control, not just a small smattering of mountain folk. Not just the ones digging it from the rock.
You can imagine how Layce feels about the Majority stealing the land from under their feet.
And still we truck and still we work, and, excepting the rebels, we keep our mouths shut because as long as the kol deliveries arrive on time, the ruling class mostly leaves us alone; they keep to the lowlands where Winter’s not quite so frigid. They want our kol, yes, but our Winter? That they could do without.
Rangers move up and down the road, hollering, pointing guns at the workers, though most of them are standing as compliantly as they’re able. Their arms wave in the cold air and they whimper, eyes seeing monsters that aren’t there, bodies twitching.
This isn’t punishment. These workers aren’t responsible for the raids. They were just unfortunate enough to be on shift when the Majority ran out of patience. This is a warning. To the rebels. To every sympathizer passing by.
You attack us, we attack them.
The rebels went too far this time—and the Majority isn’t leaving us alone any longer.
The traffic grinds to a standstill, but we’ve finally caught sight of the reason for the backup. There’s a fire in the road. Crates stacked high, hissing and popping as flames bite through cheap wood.
“It’s twyl chewing gum,” I say, recognizing the packaging. “They’re torching it.”
The gum is used to combat the negative effects of kol. Miners and those working in the Stack are given daily allotments of it, but the quantity is rarely adequate. Whenever we visited Lenore’s father, we’d take extra coin so he could buy his own supply, but the Majority allows their merchants to charge exorbitant prices for their recipe. Prices very few laborers can afford, which keeps them dependent on the Majority. I unlatch my window and let it fall. The unmistakable honeyed stench of twyl rides the wind, mixed with smoke and kol dust. Kyn pulls his shirt up over his nose and mouth.
“There’s gum in the glove compartment,” I say. With this much kol in the air, we need to protect ourselves.
He tears himself a piece and passes me one as well. I tuck it in my cheek, but I haven’t got enough for all these workers and I don’t imagine the Rangers would treat them kindly if I offered.
“My ma burns twyl blossoms indoors when the winds are high,” Kyn says. “Says it keeps her head clear of the kol.”
“Lenore does the same thing. But torching the gum isn’t going to do any good.”
We’re approaching a broad-shouldered man clad in Majority red and black, the word SUPERINTENDENT stitched onto his lapel. He’s standing in the center of the road, waving rigs around the fire.
“What’s all this?” I ask, leaning out my window, catching his attention.
“Week’s supply of twyl,” he says, ambling over. “A shame isn’t it? These poor souls are going to have to be about their business for the next seven days without a stick of gum to share.”