1BLE
The air is fetid here, humid and moist. It holds smells in a way Silco has never experienced. Itâs not quite rot, but he has no other word for what heâs smelling. Waste and refuse left to moulder, water that has been cycled through so many different machines and homes, an odd salty tang that hangs from the steam rising off the desalination plants⊠altogether, the district of Azgov smells like itâs sweating.
It is fascinating to Silco. Zaun really is a living city: heâs known its belly and bowels, and now here in the southeast, heâs making his way along the furroughed and waste-glutted skin, over the flesh exposed to the sky. Or what sky can be seen, thick and grey, between the sinew the architecture resembles.
âWelcome to the Heartland,â Vander grins at Silco. Silco grins back.
Itâs almost a joke. Azgov isnât âtrueâ Heartland, but itâs the closest thing that Vander and Silco will reach within a third of a dayâs walk. Theyâve followed Zaunâs arterial River (every district names the river something new, for it is the river of a hundred names) where it forks and heads east. Leaving the EEZ required the possession of city-travel passes to present to bored border guards; entering the bay area will require a secondary pass that neither he nor Vander could afford, nor did they know what kind of bribes those particular guards might prefer. The Heartland was enough for them, for now: Azgov was a small district, occupying the niche between the EEZ and the riverâs eastward turn into Solovneki, the Bay Area District where the river spilled out into the Blackwater Sea. Azgov was home to a very sturdy Freight Company, one who had branches in other Heartland districts, and even a couple of holdings in the Bay Area Districts of Murmondy and Magdalena. Azgov was small, but it was mighty, and had plenty of powerful links even through to central Zaun.
âNice place,â Silco notes, as he lights another cigarette. The heaving and organic scents to the air match the sheer volume of people and activity in the area. So many shops, so many homes, so many pathways where people walked and climbed and ascended in rickety cable-cages or ziplines. Much of the EEZ was built down into the stone, the architecture squat and rounded. Here, in the Heartland, even the fringes that were Azgov? The buildings were taller. Much taller, and they tangled in and through and around each other. In the distance overhead, through the fog that obscured some of the taller buildings, Silco could even see skyways linking the upper levels. People who lived and worked in those towers would never need to set their feet on solid ground, instead traversing the world on steel and wire and glass. If he was up that high, and looked down, would he even see the ground or the river? Or would the view be obscured by Zaun Grey, by the smoke and fumes of the cityâs beating hearts, the technological organs which covered the nation in perpetual fog?
âThereâs nicer,â Vander shrugs. âBut me anâ Da are Freight Folk.â He pushes his fringe from his face and scans the busy streets. They were paused by what might have once been a statue or shrine or a water-pump, but was now covered in posters and refuse and graffiti and plaster, rendering it into a shapeless but colourful way-marker. âOr, we were. He was. Itâs been a while since he moved tâthe business heâs in.â
âYou think theyâll remember you?â
Vander shrugs again. âBeen a while. But even if they donât, I know enough of the lingo, and youâre downright charminâ, Sil, so Iâm sure weâll make friends no worries.â
Silco smirks. âSave the flirting for later.â
âNah,â the blond grins, lazily. âLifeâs too short.â
They weave through the organic streets â âorganicâ shared between the worn-smooth stone beneath their feet as well as the heavy scents lingering in the air â blending in with the crowd and taking in the businesses at work and the allegiances on display. It might be the Heartland according to the maps, but Azgov had flags and graffiti from all over Zaun, advertisements for companies that would only sell on the east side of the River or in the districtâs towers, posters for the lost and missing and those worth coin to bounty hunters. Hawkers called their wares, buskers and beggars raised their voices, and the sound of industry at all levels thrummed and growled. Everything got denser the closer they got to the waterfront, including security of all kinds.
Vander squints. âDonât remember this fence beinâ here.â He swats the chain-link barrier experimentally, setting it to rattle, before pointing out several multi-story buildings. âThat thereâs the work office. Thatâs Imports anâ Exports, and thatâs Customs.â
Silco claws his fingers into the chain metal and peers through to the other side. âIâm not seeing any bunkhouses for the workers here. Lots of guards, though.â There were some on patrol, some near every pulley and crane, and plenty more just lingering and looking generally armed and dangerous. He even saw one guard with a rifle, having a smoke break in an open watchtower.
âYeah, well.â Vander grunts. âCargoâs worth more than people. Yâknow how âtis.â
âItâs why weâre here.â Silco pushes back from the fence. âIf we cannot get to the offices, letâs try plan B.â
âPub time,â Vander agrees cheerfully. âThis way.â
A few dark side streets and some shoving through crowds later, and things get less dense: the crowds, the declarations of allegiance, and even the smells. Silco flicks ash from his cigarette - he hadnât brought many with him, not wanting the guards to confiscate them at the district border - and notes the languages on the shopfronts and graffiti, as well as the designs embedded in the architecture: seashells, rolling waves, curved blades, serpentine fish. Across the air, occasionally competing with the sounds of industry, come strains of violin, horn, and waterside voices raised in song.
âBilgewater folk,â Vander explains, proudly, when Silco has the chance to ask for clarity. âAdventurers who set their anchor here. Like Daâs people.â
âPlenty who didnât have that choice, too, donât forget,â a womanâs voice drifts over the din of the streets. âYou wanna tell your friend the rest, sea-pup?â
Silco glances upwards, and sees a woman half-leaned out of a window watching them, a half-storey overhead. Thereâs a shirt in her hands, with more fabric and sleeves than the one sheâs currently wearing: sheâs using the light from the neon signs and ever-torches to guide her stitches, given the interior of her room seems quite dark. Her hair is bleached-gold and her face is smeared with a paste, a starfield of freckles that catch the light and glitter in reflection of the light outside.
Shimmer? Silco wonders, then discards the idea. The womanâs face is too round, her skin too smooth, so it is unlikely the glittering effect is from that corrosive narcotic, made in the sumps from chemical runoff. This is zinc and mica, maybe, a paste that gives the woman the sparkle and magic of Shimmer without the downside of skin and flesh dissolving. An altogether clever move, Silco thinks, to mimic the risks of the popular substance without putting oneself in actual danger.
Vander grunts, his brow furrowing. âThe rest?â
âAinât just adventurers who put down their anchor on mainlord shores,â the woman sets aside her sewing and leans further out the window, her high ponytail hanging down over her shoulder. âPlenty of exiles from the isles washed up here, and plenty of cowards who werenât strong enough to turn their blade on their fellow man to carve out a proper livinâ, or even those who came south to find the land that the Mists canât touch, for oh â oh, fellas â there are so many dead in Bilgewater, the seas all churning with them.â
Silco allows himself a faint smile as the womanâs lilting accent shifts into a storytellerâs sing-song. He smokes and listens, his eyes tracking the shifting freckles of light across the womanâs face and shoulders.
âAnd last of all,â the woman says, âLetâs not forget who the islands once held. Lots of folk whose blood is in those landsâ bones were thrown to the waves. Our ancestors made sure of that, didnât we, sea-pup?â She winks, cheekily, though the smile doesnât quite reach her eyes.
Vander grunts, arms folded and eyes dark.
âOh, lookit you sulkinâ. Have I ruined your stories for you? Sorry, fella.â The woman laughs, suddenly merry, and shifts her gaze to Silco. âYouâll find more Bilgewater folk out on the coast, all the Bayside settlements. But here? This is a slurry of cultures in Azgov, fella, so thereâs bound to be salt in the soup. Youâll find plenty of signs like this around these parts.â She slaps her windowsill, to the the peeling mosaic of waves and fish built into the stone of the building. âBut signs or not, most people here are proud to be born of Zaun.â
âAinât nothinâ wrong with lookinâ back at legacy,â Vander scowled.
âCourse not!â The woman nods. âKnowinâ where youâre from is important, so you can move forward. But for lots of us, a Bilgewater past is just tales passed down by families who wonât ever set foot on a ship again. The Heartland is a big olâ chunk of Zaunâs circling drain, fellas. The only thing youâll find here arenât heroes or pirates or legends of any kind. Just people.â
âWell, good, because weâre here to meet people,â Silco interrupts placidly. He opens his cigarette case, and plucks out a fresh one. He flourishes it in his fingers, then holds it out in her direction.
The womanâs eyes track to the cigarette. âWell,â she smiles, her teeth crooked but bright as the paste across her face, âYouâve met me.â She leans forward and stretches her arm down from the window, her limbs long and pale enough to show a collection of fading bruises.
Silco offers her the cigarette, but itâs Vander who has to take it and make sure the woman gets it, seeing as heâs the taller of the lads. âSilco.â
âSerafina,â the young woman says. She blows Vander a teasing kiss. âAnd you, sea-pup?â
Vander scowls. He still scowls, even when Silco elbows him, and gives his name with bad grace, then turns around to scowl at the passing crowd.
Serafina graciously inclines her head at the two of them, lighting the cigarette and taking a long, lingering draw on it. After a moment, she exhales, her facial features slack with contentment. âWhat kind of people are you after?â
âFreight,â Silco says. He tries to make whatâs left of his own cigarette last; heâs only got six to last him the rest of this trip. âOr at least people who are willing enough to listen to a couple of bumpkins.â
âBumpkins? You?â The woman gestures to her cigarette, eyes wide with disbelief. âNot you, fella. You are a proper gentleman, I say.â Then she laughs, and goes back to enjoying the luxury of the mountain-grass smoke.
âI donât think being a âgentlemanâ is going to do me any good,â he says, âI donât want my teeth kicked in, at least.â
âHah! Fair. So, whatâre you sellinâ?â
âWhat makes you think Iâm selling something?â
The womanâs eyes twinkle with mischief, and she arches her back to emphasise the swell of her breasts. âEveryoneâs sellinâ in Zaun.â
âSil,â Vander leans against the wall, sighing, âWe donât need this, câmon. Letâs just stop wastinâ time.â
âOh, begginâ your pardon,â the woman scoffs a puff of smoke. âIâm not interrupting date night, am I?â
Silco gives Vander a look somewhere between curiosity and warning. They can detangle whatever the true reason for Vanderâs surliness later.Â
The blond teen scowls back at Silco. âWeâre headed to a Freight pub,â he answers Serafina, arms folded and chin tucked low. âGot some business to discuss. Thatâs all you need to know.â
âWhich one?â Her head is cocked. Sheâs still smiling placidly as she smokes, but Silco sees some tension in her pose. Sheâs no longer leaning out the window, sheâs poised to withdraw.Â
Vander frowns. âThe Bloody Baron.â
âOh, sea-pup, thereâs nothinâ out here by that name.â She tsks, and flicks ash into the alleyway. âMost Freight folk drink at their Company longhouses, though youâll find a few oyster-houses where the foremen and managers toss back a few. Salâs, Breaking Even, and Handsome Jacobusâ House.â She smirks. ââHand Jobsâ for short.â
Vander, despite his sullenness, manages a snorted laugh.
The woman narrows her eyes knowingly. âBut thereâs no Baron out here, mate, with or without blood.â
âLonghouses?â Silco frowns.
Serafina shrugs, savouring one last long pull on her cigarette. âStoryâs older than I am. Some fragments tried to defect to a different Company, cost the whole district a border line, not to mention all the profits and potential earnings. Since then, Freightâs been under careful watch.â She points down at Silco and Vander with the butt of her cigarette. âIf you work Freight, you donât work for a Company no more: you work for your governor.â She flicks the cigarette butt at the opposite wall, where it lodges in the crumbling mosaic amongst the rest of the refuse. âAnd so the Companies keep their lines hard.â
âGods.â Vander runs a hand through his hair. âThat makes this harder.â He huffs a short angry sigh through his nose. âFuckinâ politics.â
Silco nods to himself, brow furrowed. Zaunâs internal territories were always in flux. It was just the nature of the city to cannibalise itself, shoring up walls with the bones of those who came before. Companies butting heads over territory and employees meant blocks and businesses were issue enough when it came to what streets one could walk and where was safe or legal to shop or sleep. But for Freight to be a District issue now meant that any disruption could result in the attention of those with capital-p Power, those who wrote the laws and raised their armies and taxes, who could strangle and starve thousands just to make a point. Silco lets his gaze rise to the towers, the looming structures barely visible overhead, and then let his gaze travel westwards, to the mountain-sized towers in the heart of the Heartlands, where Zaunâs Chief Executive Officers ruled all.
And he feels, in that moment, very small. A quiet cold breath puffs on the back of his neck, setting a shiver down his spine and his spirit faltering. What am I doing? Chipping a brick at the bottom of the pillar? It will fall. It will crush us all. He should just go home, and be glad that the Collective hasnât drawn the ire of the governors of the EEZ, of all the districts that make up the southern mountain rim. Whoever they are, Silco blinks, as he realises he cannot recall off-hand the names of the Powerful People who own the land he lives on and the air he breathes. He knows the Company that owns the mine, and the Companies that work in rivalry or collaboration with it, but nothing further. Nothing beyond. He doesnât even know the name of his own districtâs governor.
⊠but then, itâs just as unlikely that the governor knows the names of anyone beneath them, either.
âThe Longhouses,â Serafina continues, rousing Silco from his troubled musing, âAre living quarters, bars, shops, everything all in one. State-owned, walled anâ watched anâ warded.â
Vander wrinkles his nose. âSounds tâme like theyâre keepin Freight workers like animals in a pen.â
Serafina snaps her fingers and points to Vander, nodding.
Vander looks suddenly ill. âGods, Da, why didnâ you say nothinâ?â he mutters, running both hands through his straw-coloured hair.Â
âProbably because he shifted sticks before the doors locked, sea-pup,â the woman says sadly. âJust one generation gone, and all the world shifts. Circlinâ the drain.â
Silco finishes his cigarette angrily, and grinds the butt out on the cobbles beneath his boot sole. It feels more important than ever to find some way to talk to these people. Someone has to be mad about this. Someone has to want to change things. Surely.
âHowever.â The woman leans her elbow on the windowsill, her head propped up on her hand. âNot all of Freightâs been contained. There are better ways than walls and paychecks to keep folk in line.â She smiles coyly. âI might know one or two fellas who work for Freight but who ainât kept in the same cage as the rest.â
What were the odds of that? To meet just the right person who had just the right connection? Perhaps it was too good to be true. Silco looks at Vander, wanting his opinion, his thoughts.
Vander sighs, and shrugs. âWe came all this way, Sil. Might as well try tâtalk to someone.â
âHm.â Silco looks up at the woman in the window again. âWhatâll that cost us?â Nothingâs for free in Zaun.
The woman smiles, her crooked teeth gleaming, glittering with the same paint on her face. âFor a gentleman like you, Mister Silco? Another one of your fine cigarettes, to be paid once we reach our destination. Iâll accept nothing else,â she adds, with the batting of her glittering eyelashes.
He manages a smile, or as much of a smile as his paralysed face allows. âDeal.â
âIâll be right down, lads.â She vanishes from the windowsill, and closes the shutters behind her.Â
Vander exhales, and cracks his neck left then right. âNot how I saw today goinâ,â he admits. âHad no idea about the whole Governor thing. Sorry, Sil.â
âThis was never going to be an easy thing, coming all this way for a chat,â he leans against the blond, folding his arms and letting his gaze travel through the rope-and-timber platforms connecting the buildings around them.
âStill. Forgot how quick the city moves.â Vander sighs, and slings an arm around Silco. âDaâs friends might not even be here no more.â
âA shame we canât get to the coast,â Silco murmurs. âVander, do you know who the district governer is for Bergen?â For the district that contained Silcoâs Collective, his mine, his home.
âNo clue, Sil.âÂ
âWhat about Visby?â The district closer to Azgov, a district constantly in flux as it chased profit along the river or the coast or the mountains. Its borders changed monthly, apparently; he had no idea if that was true.
Vander frowns, and shakes his head. âThe only governor I know is Pyotr Fecklestein, and thatâs mostly because of the song what started after he shat himself to death. âIn Rostock, the rats are eating well, we hearââŠâ He stops, embarrassed.
Rostock. A Heartland district, if Silco remembers rightly from that inaccurate map, somewhere west; it might as well be another world away, for all he knew. And as much a world away as these towers barely visible in the Grey overhead. âYouâve a good voice for singing, Van.â
âTch.â For all it is a dismissive sound, Vander manages a smile.
The door to the tenement opens, and Serafina emerges. Sheâs balanced on a pair of hand-brace crutches, and her glittering silken skirt hangs hollow mid-thigh. âSeconded,â she says, grinning. âYouâve got good lungs, sea-pup.â
âOff with ya,â Vander growls, flushing.Â
Serafina laughs, then smiles between the two of them. âRight-o, my fine fellows from down south, follow me.â Her whole body sways as she makes her way forward, the crutches clacking loudly over the cobbles and walkways and grates.
Vander and Silco exchange only the briefest of glances before moving to keep up. Serafina keeps a quick pace on those sticks of hers, muscles in her bare arms working as she supports her weight. Her ponytail sways with the motion of her paces.
âAre you sure youâve not heard of the Bloody Baron?â Vander asks, as he ducks under a low platform. âDa said we couldnât miss it.â
âMightâve changed names, but Iâm sure as the Grey.â The glitter-skinned woman leans all her weight on one crutch and half-spins to look back at Vander, then twirls all the way around and continues on with a hop to her second crutch. âDid he say where it was?â
âDown by the river.â
âAll the best pubs are down by the river, sea-pup. Trust me, Iâve worked the waterside since mama stopped carryinâ me.âÂ
âWhy would a place change names?â Silco asks. Nothing in Bergen ever changed. The river, the mountain, the mine, the Company tenement houses and the streets they were on had always been the same, as long as he could remember. Change didnât come to the EEZ, not until he started kicking around.Â
Serafina shrugs, and light catches on the glittering paint on her bare shoulders. She shines all over. âNew owner, maybe. Or maybe they wanted to avoid any capital-t Troubles, what with their name being associated with rabble-rousers.â She hums thoughtfully. âThree pubs come to mind that could be the place you were after.â
âOh, yeah?â
âWeâre headed to one of them. Diverâs Bounty.â
Silco smiles to himself, and allows the indulgence of a shake of a head and a small chuckle. What a small world it is, for one he was finding was so much larger than he knew. He was a diver, wasnât he? Or he had been, when he was younger and could fit into those narrow gaps in the rock.
âGood Bilgewater name,â Vander says, with a nod. âProbably the place, I reckon.â
Serafina playfully scoffs at him. Silco smiles.
-
It is a crowded place. The floor seems half-collapsed, and instead of attempting to fix the floor the clientele had merely adapted to it. Booths lined the tavern walls, on street level, then ramps and rampshackle platforms lead down into a barely-level pit two feet down where the rest of the tables filled the space. The air smells of all kinds of smoke, from the pit-fires where a perpetual stew bubbles under a cookâs watchful eye, to the oil lamps leaving yet more dark stains on the walls and ceiling, to each and every patron: no-one seems without a cigarette, cheroot, or pipe.Â
Serafina, in her glittering body-paint and white shimmery dress, stands out like a star in the dark. Or at least how a star is said to shine; Silco has never seen one. He watches in mild amusement as their guide saunters her way inside, her crutch-strides now being accentuated by little flirtatious arches and sways. And people here know her, and greet her, and sullen silences turn to friendly nods and perhaps even a greeting as she saunters past.
âI didnât realise you were a celebrity,â Silco notes, as he keeps pace with her.Â
She just laughs. âI told you: I work the waterside. Everyone knows me here.â She flutters her eyelashes briefly, before returning to scan the pubâs interior. âEveryone loves me. Maddie!â She shifts all her weight to one crutch and raises a hand to wave, then acrobatically pounces her way down into the pit and strides her way past the crowded tables to someone on the far end of the room.
Amused, Silco does his best to catch up, with Vander keeping close behind him.
Serafina has thrown herself into an empty chair at a table currently hosting one other person. This must be âMaddieâ: a young man with kohl-painted eyes, dark hair to his shoulders, and the whitest teeth Silco has ever seen. He is certainly giving Serafina a warm smile, but his eyes flick to Vander and Silco quickly, clocking them as strangers, and the warmth vanishes. He has no cigarette, no pipe, only a half-finished drink and a pile of papers that he sweeps into a pile and into his lap, out of sight.Â
Silco gets his cigarette case from his jacket, and gets his payment ready for Serafina.
âMaddie, may I introduce my two new friends?â Serafina leans forward and accepts the cigarette from Silcoâs fingers. âThis gentleman here is Silco, and the big buff lad is Vander. Theyâve come all the way from the southern sticks to have a chat. Lads? This is Madhukar. Heâs with Freight. One of the last free Freight Companies, at least.â
Madhukarâs eyes travel with efficient judgement over the two of them. âYouâve got my ear for ten minutes, gentleman,â he says, flashing a very white smile, one that doesnât reach his eyes. âAnd only because this sweet jewel has vouched for you.â
Serafina smiles, tucking the cigarette into her bustier, then reclines where she sits, her crutches leaning on the edge of the table.
At the manâs invitation, Silco and Vander take a seat. Conversation and music continue around them, but Silco is mindful of how many people here are keeping half an eye or half an ear on them. Heâs used to that by now, but even so the scrutiny feels far more pointed.
âSo.â Madhukar weaves his fingers together, leans forward to rest his hands and elbows on the table. âA chat? What about?â He looks at Silco first, then at Vander.
Vander shrugs, leaning back in his chair and gesturing to Silco, before busying himself with his pipe. Madhukarâs face tenses, slightly, and Silco wonders what faux pas Vander has committed. His fellowâs been prickly all afternoon, and theyâre here to make a good impression.
So, with that in mind, Silco offers his cigarette case â it is gently waved aside â then tucks it back into his jacket. He tskes a breath, and begins. âI was born a miner. My parents were miners.â
âRough work.â The Freight man arches an eyebrow. âHeavy cargo.â
âSo I hear. I imagine you get paid more for the heavy stuff.â
Dark brows furrow: Silco can feel himself being assessed as much as rousing Madhukarâs curiosity. âDepends on how much we have to haul and how many we need for the job.â
âDifferent rates for different cargo?âÂ
Madhukar frowns, his eyes defensive. âAre you asking because you have something you need moved?â
âNo,â Silco says. âBut I am here to talk business. How much do you know about mining?â
The Freight worker snorts, amused. âYou dig a hole in the ground, find the good stuff, put it in boxes and send it to us.â
âYou know about the mine gas?â
âGas? In stone?â
âPockets of dead air,â Silco explains, âSometimes just stale nothingness trapped in stone for ages. Sometimes itâs toxic, silent and eagerly-flammable. Mine-damp, we call it. Itâs a sign of where best to start digging. When I was a boy, it was my job to crawl into crevices, down into the dark, and breathe. Find the dead air, so management can decide where to dig⊠and where to vent.â
The Freight man waits. He is not impatient, but it is clear he doesnât see a point to this talk. His eyes pick over Silcoâs face.
âI imagine not a lot of children work Freight,â Silco says. âEspecially when it comes to lifting heavy loads.â
Madhukarâs eyes narrow slightly. âCourse not. But thereâs still work to be done. Courier work, message running, things like that. The rule is: if you donât work, you donât eat.â
Silco nods. âWhatâs the death toll like?â
Madhukar unlinks his hands and leans back, palms resting on the table. His face is suddenly very neutral.
âI ask,â Silco continues, âBecause when I was young? Miners would die all the time. From the children checking for mine-damp, to those half-grown digging the holes for lights and lines and richer veins, to the adults and aged sorting the ore and shale or pushing the carts. A fact of life, learned young, that deathâs everywhere. My own parents wereâŠâ Silco feels his throat seize up. He hasnât thought about them in a while. The realisation stops him from speaking as much as the memory of their loss does.Â
âMy condolences for their passing,â Madhukar says carefully, diplomatically.
Silco exhales through his nose. He steadies himself. âThings have changed,â he says. He finds his voice settling into the same level tone and commanding cadence that it does at every Collective meeting. He is aware of more people listening in; he knows his voice has that effect. âWe got tired of dying. We got tired of the negligence and the neglect and the way we were treated as expendable by those in power.â
And there, for a moment, Madhukarâs eyes gleam with interest. Something in that phrase has him listening intently. There is a purpose to his interest.
But Silco doesnât have the time to decipher exactly what it is. âWe, the miners, formed a Collective. Every one in the mines, from the children to the elderly, was a person worth hearing. Worth keeping alive.â He raises his hand, balances the palm, tips it down to the table. âIn the past year, there hasnât been a single child that has died in the mines. We stopped it from happening.â
âYou stopped death?â Madhukar laughs, lightly mocking.Â
âNear enough,â Silco nods, giving a small smile. âTurns out, when the workers outnumber the people in charge, the people in charge get a bit nervous about treading down too hard.â He flashes a brief glimpse of teeth. âAfter all, we have pickaxes and dynamite.â
Madhukar studies Silco again. Beside him, Serafinaâs eyes are wide. Both of them are sitting very still, not moving.
âWe still work,â Silco continues weaving his hands together, tapping his thumbs. âWe still dig in the dark, still sort the ore and coal, still bring the Company the profit theyâve come to expect. But we changed the rules. We set our own shifts. We keep everyone fed and healthy. We have schools for the children and infirmaries for the injured, and even a kitchen so we have hot meals and a place where we can make and fix our own gear instead of waiting for contracted imports. We used to be crushed under the weight of our work, but now weâre⊠proud of it. Strong in it.â
Madhukar takes a breath in the silence that Silco leaves, then takes a pull of his drink. He hums, and frowns, then meets Silcoâs gaze again. âAnd whatâs that got to do with Freight, exactly?â
Silco tips his chin towards the man. âBecause of what you said: you donât work, you donât eat.â He shrugs, and taps his thumbs together again, leaning forward on his elbows. âMost of Freightâs owned by the Governor in Azgov, I hear.â
âMost of Freight,â Madhukar echoes. Silco sees the spark in the other manâs eyes, but itâs guarded. âSome families operate locally, butâŠâ The corner of his mouth twitches, a flash of tooth in a sneer. âYouâve it right.â
âA chain of command that ironclad must beâŠâ Silco remembers his cigarette, and is midly disappointed to see it burned to the end. He stubs it out on the tableâs empty ashtray. âFrustrating.â When Madhukarâs brow furrows, Silco sees agreement. âWork is prioritised to the governorâs favourites, I imagine?â
The Freight man swirls his flagon, then slides it to his right, within reach of Serafina. A gesture of comfortable familiarity. âSometimes thereâs not enough work to go âround, das. But thatâs just business.â
âIt doesnât have to be,â Silco says.
âOh? You think so?â
Silco nods, his eyes locked on the other manâs. He sees that fire, that frustration. He wants to reach it. He understands it. Heâs seen it and encouraged it in others, surely here he can do the same.Â
For a moment, the Freight man just stares back at him. But then his eyes slide away, to Vander. âAnd what about you, big lad? You still like digging your holes?â
âMe?â Vander scoffs a laugh. âNah, mate, Iâm not a miner. Not even from the mountains. My Da and I run a pawn shop in Bergen proper.â
Madhukar blinks. âA pawn shop? So why are you here?â
Vander leans one arm on the table and grins. âCoz I seen a bunch of suits and steel-boots shudderinâ. Coz Silcoâs started somethinâ impossible, anâ I wanna stick around and see just how far he can go.â
âWe,â Silco corrects, gently, for the Collectiveâs sake, but gives Vander a warm smile. Then he turns his gaze back to Madhukar. âI started the Collective to give us a better chance of surviving. Turns out, a few pushes to be seen as human and be treated fairââ
âMakes the rich folk shit themselves,â Vander interrupts, with a loud laugh. âSil, tell âem about that Company kid.â And then he leans forward, keen to tell the story himself. âHe shows up with a whole platoon, armed to the teeth. Turns off the air, thinking to choke the whole mine out. And Sil goes out thereâŠâ
Madhukar raises a palm, shaking his head. âGentlemen,â he says, smiling in a charming way that somehow doesnât meet his eyes. âI am very pleased to hear you have done well for yourselves and your people. But your mine is not the district of Azgov, and your miners are not our shipping-folk. What was dire need and a triumph for you is not the same for us.â
Vander huffs, and slumps back in his chair with his arms folded. Silco stays still, watching the Freight man.
Madhukar returns Silcoâs gaze, level and firm. âThe stakes are higher here,â he says simply. âYou cannot possibly understand the danger you would put us all in, if we were to start making demands or changes like you suggest.â
âThen tell me,â Silco says. âTell me about it, so I can know.â
But the young man shakes his head. âYour time is up.â He exhales through his nose, setting his jaw. âYou have a good day, miner-boy. Donât get mugged on the way home.â
Vander throws his hands up, and uses the momentum of the drop of his arms to rise from his seat. âCâmon, Sil. Sorry this didnât work out.â
Silco doesnât rise, not for a moment. Heâs still watching Madhukar, and those guarded eyes. Silco knows that guardedness. He knows heâs been heard, and understood. The spark is there, but⊠what can one person do against the wall of The Way Things Are? Madhukar has heard him. Plenty of people eavesdropping also heard him. Thatâs all Silco wanted, to be heard. Thatâs how it starts. But there is so much more to say, and no chance to say it.
He gets to his feet, fixes his vest, and turns to follow Vander to the door. Thereâs a lot of the room theyâll need to cross, all that uneven ground.
âWait!â
Madhukar lets out an exclaimation, lifting the papers out of his lap in an effort to save them: Serafina has jumped up so quickly that sheâs knocked the manâs drink over with her crutches.Â
The glittery-skinned nightwalker slings herself around into Silcoâs path, her crutches almost skidding on the mismatched wooden floorplanks. âWait,â she says, pleading, her eyes still wide, as she fights for balance. âYou⊠how dâyou do it?â
Silco cocks his head slightly.Â
âYour Collective,â Serafina says. âHowâd you get people to⊠to listen?âÂ
Like this, he thinks.Â
Serafina leans her weight on one of the crutches, freeing a hand to grab Silcoâs sleeve. He crooks his arm, instead, like the gentleman sheâd joked him to be, and escorts her to an empty table, pulling out a chair for her. She sits, not taking her eyes off him.
She looks scared. Desperate. Thereâs a very hungry hope in her eyes. Itâs not quite a fire, but maybe⊠maybe it could be enough. After all, heâd come here to talk.
Vander glances at Silco, then gives an amused sigh. âIâll get us some drinks. Hope our moneyâs good here.â Heâd brought a bunch of cross-district currency with him, and not all of it had been spent on the border bribes.Â
Silco trusts Vander to handle the necessities in the background. For now, he was asked a question, so itâs time to do what he does best, what he came here to do.
âI donât know much about you,â Silco says, studying the womanâs face. âOr the work you do.â
Serafinaâs nose wrinkles slightly, a bit of amusement showing through the tension. âWhat, youâve never had business in bed before?â
Silco gives a brief shake of his head. Not at the mines, no. Heâs never felt the need for it. Heâs always been so tired with the work, and the apartment has always felt too empty of love to leave at night and too full of grief to bring someone to share it. There were whores enough in Bergen, some of them did quite well cashing in minerâs scrip and Company tokens. But heâd never shared companionship for coin.Â
The glittery-skinned woman hesitates. Then her eyes flick across the room, to where Vander is leaning at the bar. âSo you picked him up instead, for free? Sorry,â she amends, quickly, âDonât mean no disrespectââ
Silco, regardless, snorts. âNo, it was funny.â Itâs the right return to a teasing joke, a response that helps ease a bit of tension out of the womanâs tightly-gripped hands. âBut the work I meanâs more in the nature of it, rather than the body of it.â He tips his chin to the room. âYouâre respected here.â
âCourse I am,â Serafina frowns slightly. âThis is home turf.â
âPeople here listen to you.â
âYeah.â Her brows furrow. âBut thatâs not what I mean.â
âYou mean âother peopleâ.â
Something about the question scares her into silence. She gives only the smallest and jerkiest of nods.Â
Gentle. Easy. Heâs dealt with scared people before. People are most fearful when they feel alone. âSo tell me about the work. Is it just you in that tenement?â
She shakes her head, pulling her ponytail into her hands to pull nervously, soothingly, at it. âThirteen of us. We split day and night shifts, so we have enough to pay rent.â
âRent? Who to?â
âFella by the name Makrus.â
âThirteen to one.â Silco hums softly. âThose numbers seem a bit off.â
Serafinaâs fingers hook into her hair.
âI get people to listen,â he continues, gently, âBy having the numbers.â He glances across the room, where Vander is bargaining for a pair of pints; Silcoâs gaze, on the return journey, catch Madhukar of Freight watching intently, closely, from the table right behind him.Â
âLots of miners down south, I hear,â Serafina says stiffly.
âThere canât be only thirteen nightwalkers in the whole of Azgov,â Silco raises an eyebrow.Â
She wrinkles her nose at him. âThereâs more than just us, donât be daft. But theyâre competition.â
âSays who? The man who collects your rent?â
Serafinaâs mouth opens, then closes again. She frowns, and smoothes down her hair.Â
He knows he could push the point more. But this is a woman who doesnât need to be pushed. She needs to see a way out. âNumbers,â he says, trying to build up the courage. Itâs one thing to talk to people youâve known all your life, but baring your soul to the wrong stranger could end badly. He swallows the lump in his throat, laces his fingers together, leans his elbows on the table. âWhen my parents died,â he says, quietly, looking at his thumbs, âI was given a cheque. Enough money to cover the apartment for years. All I needed to do was keep my head down.â He lifts his gaze, and holds hers. âBut I went looking for the numbers. The ledgers. And I found the Company spent more on replacement pickaxes than they did on the people who brought me into this world.â It still makes him sick, to remember it. Still makes his fingers itch to steal a few more pinches of dynamite.
Vander sets a flagon of something dark and potent on the table, then eases himself into the chair at Silcoâs side. Feeling Vanderâs hand on his shoulder, that brief reassuring squeeze, gives Silco a bit more of the strength to continue. To breathe, even.
âNumbers,â Serafina says quietly. âNot just people.â
He nods. âThe Company owned everything. The buildings we lived in, the tools we used, the food we ate, even the air they send into the mines. But if we stopped working, theyâd had nothing. We have the numbers, so we should have the numbers.â He unlaces his fingers and leans forward on his elbows, smiling faintly at Serafina. âSo. Tell me about this fellow who collects the rent.â
âSânot just him,â Serafina narrows her eyes against the unpleasant familiarity she has with this person in her mindâs eye. âHe shows up with three, maybe four fellows. Just to make sure we all stay in line. We donât got the option to just stop workinâ, yâknow.â
Silco sips from the dark ale heâd been brought, and lets the silence exist for Serafina to fill it.Â
âMakrus doesnât own the building,â the woman says, frowning to herself. âJust collects rent on it, for someone else. Dunno who.â And her eyes slide to one side, and narrow at the middle distance. Itâs something she knows she should know, but sheâs never thought about. Her eyes flick back to Silco, then to Vander. âRent, anâ protection,â she adds, like an almost necessary afterthought.
Itâs Vander who speaks up now. âProtection? From what? The govânor?â
âFrom bad customers,â Serafina says, âFromâŠâ And she pauses, her eyes narrowing. Then she scoffs, and taps the edge of the table with a mica-painted fingernail, and her lips press together sourly.
Silco knows the look, knows the realisation sheâs having. âTheyâre manufacturing the danger youâre in, so youâll pay.â
âSâthe way itâs always been,â Serafina taps the table again.
âAlways is,â Vander shrugs, and sips his ale. âWhy would there ever be an alternative?â He gestures with his thumb towards Silco. âMore than one mining Company in the EEZ, yâknow. Competition, kinda like you said you had. Least, âtil Sil and the Collective started makinâ friends along the other mines. Now the Collectiveâs more people, not just one worksite. Everyoneâs still workinâ, just⊠the Company â Companies - donât decide life and death like they used to.â
There is a sharp clack as a third mug is set on the table. Silco looks up, into the inscrutable gaze of Madhukar, who pulls his own chair up, taking a seat with a fresh drink in hand. Behind him, and in many of the tables, other folks are listening with the same deadpan keenness as this Freight man. His expression is very difficult to decipher, but it doesnât seem overtly hostile.
Serafina doesnât even acknowledge Madhukar joining her, or his defensive posture and seat at her side. Sheâs looking at Silco, rolling her lower lip between her teeth as she does so. âThereâs dead air in the rock, you say.â That hungry desperation isnât in her eyes anymore. Now itâs sharp, and thoughtful, and something else. âThereâs worse out on the streets. Plenty to kill you, or worse.â She looks at his scars, and chews her lip again.
âI donât doubt it. But, again, youâd know better than I.â Silco keeps his eyes on Serafina, maintaining their conversation, but he is aware of the way that Madhukar is looking at him. Thereâs measurement in that gaze, the sense and implication of being balanced on a set of scales. Heâd come here to speak to Freight, and Freight was listening. But this woman in front of him, her skin painted with sparkles, means more in this moment. She, and what Silco would say to her, carries weight and more importance. â⊠I wonât lie, it wasnât easy, getting people to listen. And it certainly didnât happen overnight, or with everyone immediately rallying. âThe way things areâ might be awful, but itâs familiar.â
âFamiliarity breeds contempt,â Serafina murmurs. Was she quoting something?
Silco shrugs and takes a sip of his dark ale. âComfort, Iâd say. People will pick comfort over change, more often than not.â
Serafinaâs brows pinch together, and her lips purse. She almost seems about to nod.
Madhukar half leans towards her, letting their shoulders press together as though to transfer some strength to Serafina. âSo why didnât you, miner boy?â
His gaze flicks to the Freight man, then back to Serafina. âI got angry,â he said, simply. âAngry enough that âthe way things areâ felt like kindling.â
Vander chuckles, and downs the last of his drink. âSil, we gotta go. Gotta make it back before the border pass expires.â
Silco tsks, but nods. âNever enough hours in the day,â he shrugs, and throws his drink back too. When he sets his flagon back down, his attention is still on the shining nightwalker. âI know this is your turf, but you called me a gentlemanââ
Vander sighs heavily.
Silco ignores him, continuing, âSo if you need someone to walk you back, Iâd be happy to oblige.â
Madhukar tsks faintly, straightening in his chair.Â
But the nightwalkerâs lips curve in an amused smile, some of her unease banished at what now seems to be a running joke shared between herself and this skinny miner from the southern sticks. âItâll cost you a cigarette.â
âNow, or when we get there?â
She hums, thoughtfully. âIn advance. Canât have you running off on me.â
Silco inclines his head, rises, and flourishes his cigarette case at her. She laughs, spends a moment to deliberate, then plucks out one to secure in her bustier.
âMost men would try to negotiate prices,â she arches an eyebrow at him, as she rises and secures her crutches in place.
âOh, should I have done that? Itâs my first time.â
Vander rolls his eyes. âGods almighty, Sil, youâre a right trial sometimes.â
Serafina giggles. âEasy, sea-pup, Iâm not gonna steal your man. He couldnât afford me, anyway.â
âLikely,â Silco gives a grin that his face makes lopsided, âA minerâs pay isnât worth the tin itâs made from.â
Vander huffs, throwing his arm, and makes for the door. Serafina is not far behind, teasing the young man gently.Â
Silco pauses, and looks at Madhukar. The Freight man looks back at him, indecipherable.Â
âEast Bergen,â Silco says. âIf you need to find us, or blacklist us, or anything else, youâll find us in Bergen.â He turns aside, fixing his lapels and giving the other man no time to respond. That conversation, after all, had come to an end a while ago. He catches a lot of eyes on him as he catches up with Vander and Serafina.
He has to wonder about this place. Most of Freight in Azgov is owned by the governor of Azgov. People kept behind fences. So what kind of Freight is this, that they have a whole building, and food and alcohol, and a place to sit and smoke in prime working hours? Thereâs so much of the world he doesnât know. At least heâs sure that today wasnât a total wash.Â
ââ throw you over my shoulder and carry you the rest of the way,â Vander grizzles.
âThatâll cost you another cigarette, sea-pup!â
âSilcoâs payinâ, not me!â
âOh, so youâll share?â
Silco breathes a laugh. âI take my eyes off of you for two seconds,â he tsks to Vander, then crooks his elbow to Serafina.Â
She laughs, and waves him off, striding forward on her crutches, leaving the men to keep pace behind and aside her.Â
The streets feel different, in lengthening shadows, as lanterns are lit and brighter lights from the towers and rope-platforms above cast down weird finger-long shadows through the Grey. Sunset near Bergen feels slow, gradual. This is barely afternoon, and it feels like someoneâs drawn a curtain, and then shone a searchlight over it; being out on the streets feels illicit, anticipatory. Silco rests his hand on the hilt of his knife as he walks, and Vanderâs eyes cast back and forth, watching faces and glancing down alleys.
âClever clogs,â Serafina notes, her voice a whisper. âAnâ here I thought Iâd have to tout you a warning.â
âNot everyone from the sticks is a fool,â Vander murmurs. He glowers at a passing stranger, who quickens their pace to pass by so he can keep minding his own business.Â
âNever said either of you were.â She pulls up short for a moment, and frees one hand from her crutches to touch part of a crumbling wall. In the hazy dimness, Silco thinks he can see a shape in the mosaic, a smear of blue paint all that gives it any meaning. â⊠Azgovâs rife with landlords,â she says, even quieter. She stares into the dark, and swallows.Â
Landlords. The term itself makes Silcoâs skin itch, but it carries the weight of more than just ârentâ and âpowerâ. Sheâs waiting here for a reason, biding her time. Hiding?
Vander glances at Silco, then shifts around to stand at Serafinaâs other side. She gives a small breath of a laugh and pats him on the arm, then looks to Silco. A smile is creeping across her face, and the mica sparkles on her cheeks.
âNo jokes,â Silco warns, gently. âHeâs just being polite.â
Vander grunts. âFigured youâd feel better beinâ inbetweeâ gods dammit.â
Serafina snorts in an effort to stifle the laugh. Silco rubs his face with his hand; heâs not hiding a smile, he certainly is not.Â
âGods damn you both,â Vander brings up both hands and rubs his face. âAugh. Are we near your tenement or not, woman?â
âNot far now. Few more blocks.â She takes a breath, then leans on her crutches and swings herself forward. Sheâs moving gracefully still, but now her head is down and thereâs a definitive attempt to lengthen her strides. Silco and Vander keep up, shadowing her like theyâre her hired muscle. What people there are tend to give a wide berth, or duck aside entirely. Between Vanderâs size and Silcoâs face, they have a menacing presence that keeps them safe from this odd dusk-light tension.
Serafina breathes a sigh of relief as the tenement comes into view. The door is open, two women languidly posed for passers-by, but they immediately straighten up, alert and tense. (Or⊠no; Silco frowns. The tension had even been in their affected casualness. Or is he overthinking?)
âTheyâre fine,â Serafina hisses a hushed whisper, as she pivots and turns back to face Silco and Vander with a grateful smile. âThey got me back safe. Iâm safe, Iâm back safeâŠâ
âAs promised.â Silco inclines his head. âYou take care.â
The nightwalker smiles, but it doesnât quite meet her eyes. âYou know your way back to the border from here?â
Silco glances to Vander, who shrugs a casual nod. âWeâll be fine.â
Serafina wrinkles her nose, somewhat unconvinced. âYou take care, lads. Donât get caught.â
Caught? By whom? Or by what? Silco inclines his head, and turns to go.Â
Serafina and the other two nightwalkers squeeze through the tenement door, and shut it. A lock clunks into place. The light on the other side is turned off, no more beams through the gauzy curtain. The street is so much darker now, definitively enclosed in shadows between the old walls and the taller buildings and the rope-made paths overhead.
Vander squints. âThe hells is going on,â he murmurs, as he catches up to Silco.Â
âSomething we werenât ready for,â Silco murmurs back; heâs paused, frowning. âCarlisle didnât mention any of this to you?â
The blond shook his head. âAzgov werenât this tense when Da were here. He wouldnâtâve let me come without my hello-stick if he knew it were this bad.â He bites his lip and inhales through his teeth. âSil, if I didnât know any better, thisâd read like a real good place for a trap.â
â⊠I know.â
Light shifts in the street, a small slice of it cutting through the darkness outside. Silco glances towards the source. The upstairs window where Serafina had been sewing before, when they first met her, has illuminated. The shutters are drawn, but Silco sees the light, and the shadow of a woman. Sheâs watching them leave.
Serafina had touched the blue bird for them, not for her, hadnât she?
Cold instinct hits his spine. Silco rests his hand on his knife, and turns to see someone coming out of the nearest alley, grinning at him.Â
âSee somethinâ you like, friend?â
Silcoâs heard the word âfriendâ used like a threat before. Sometimes itâs subtle. This time does not feel subtle. Itâs spoken through broken teeth and backed by companions who have their hands resting casually on nail-embedded bludgeons.
Silco reads the situation quickly, from the figures sauntering out of the darkness, and the way Serafina retreats further from the shutters, and how even the mosaic patterns on the wall seem to be still, trying to be invisible behind the trash and grime. One of these thugs must be Makrus, Silco guesses. This is how Makrus controls his streets, and his possessions, and no-one passes through without giving the landlord his cut. This is a situation that needs to be diffused. And this is, above all things, about business.
âPretty,â Silco says, leaning into his EEZ accent a touch more than necessary. âBut not really worth my coin.â
The man who must be Makrus smirks, his gaze sliding to Vander, then back to Silco. âI see, I see. Shame, really. Theyâre worth the time and energy.â And he grins, and his companions all make knowing, ugly laughs.Â
Silco sees something in his periphery. In the opposite alley, through which he and Vander had just walked, someone in shadow is staying just out of sight. Watching. Tense. A third party? Part of the trap? No, it doesnât seem so. But it almost strikes him as absurd. What kind of a pantomime is this? Silco wonders. And then, a thought. A pantomine? A performance? So be it. He can play a role or two.
So he shrugs, in Makrusâ direction. âWeâre looking for something else. Donât sâpose you have any suggestions for where a couple of lads from the sticks might find fun that suits them?â
Vander picks up on the mood shift as well, and drops his arms to his side, looking more the big slow bumpkin. âWeâve coin burning a hole in our pockets a-night, we do. Anâ a right need to spend it âfor the dawn.â He nods, his head bobbing, his eyes wide and simple. Itâs a remarkable transformation; heâs a good actor.
Makrus struts forward, looking Silco up and down, then Vander. âMight do, might do, dear lads. This isnât the only cathouse in Azgov.â
âWeâre not here for cats,â Silco says, politely. He doesnât let the smile reach his eyes.
Makrusâ men guffaw like itâs the funniest thing theyâve heard. Makrus tsks them to silence, then reaches into his patchwork coat to produce a card that he shoves into Silcoâs hand. Surrepticiously, like this is some grand secret, and his heavy hands enclose over Silcoâs somewhere between entreaty and threat but heavy on the latter. âI got the only folk worth fuckinâ in Azgov, lad. Any of the houses with his symbol on the door? Itâs mine. Youâll spend your coin there and nowhere else. Get me, get me?â The men heft their clubs suggestively.
âI get you,â Silco nods his chin. Vander grunts the affirmative.
âLovely, lovely!â Makrus lets go, and steps back to join his men. âWeâre headed to the Lock for a drink, care to come along?â
âNext time. We got⊠things to do. Things of yours.â
âHa! Right you do, right you do. Cheerio!â
Silco watches the gang of thugs leave, then looks at the card. A skull, impaled by a curved spear, haloed by five nails. He looks up now, and sees the same symbol amidst the graffiti on the tenement facade. It wasnât huge, it wasnât noticeable, but now he knows what to look for he can easily see it. It is ugly and threatening, a brand of ownership on the building and the women who have to call it home.
âThat man has a very punchable face,â Vander says evenly, rolling his neck and folding his arms.Â
âNext time,â Silco echoes. He turns to the shadows, and flicks the card in the direction of the darkness.
A hand snaps out, snatching the card out of the air.
âGet the numbers,â Silco suggests.Â
Madhukar nods, his eyes dark and angry, before he slips back into the shadows, and then away into the streets.Â
Silco had come here to be heard, and heâd been told in return he had no idea what he was getting into. So be it: today had been productive after all. Itâs not often you get a good fair trade, and maybe everyone had heard something worth considering tonight. Silco glances back to the tenement house, raises his hand to wave â Serafina, the jewel of the waterside and friend to Freight, doesnât wave back â before he and Vander turn and make the afternoon trek back towards the border.Â














