The
only people who would look at her in Grimora were the guards, arrows nocked and
ready.
“I still love you,” Cy told the capital from
under her tattered cloak.
She got the impression that it was an unrequited feeling. Perhaps it had
something to do with her eyes. “Like drops of sapphire paint,” one noble had
commented through her nose. “If someone had smudged them.”
Cy
had never seen herself clearly, but she still remembered each color before her
eyes were left only with gray and blue. The reflection in the tiles while she
had scrubbed the grout was of a scrawny girl with skin whiter than the marble.
A curled mess of black had sat atop her head, but she had been ten at the time.
Her hair was still a perpetual mess, she knew that much.
Her
love for the city came from humility and ingrained awe for that which was more
powerful than she. When she still had it, her heart had been stolen by the
sights of the city carved into once towering mountains. Grimora was shaped like
a diamond locket resting upon a crimson sea where black petals as large as
small ships floated. Terraced homes and shops dotted every row on plains with
grass so green it was black. Everywhere, there was color. Yellows, oranges,
pinks, like a maiden blushing. The city was proud of itself for all except the
crawling lower castes.
She
held on to her admiration as the sand hit the scabs on her knees. Even thanking
the pain for keeping her wits sharp in silence.
Speaking
of time, Cy ran her thumb over her left wrist to check her mark. The irritated
tattoo had been burning since she had entered the massive market. The man she
called master had to be reached before the mark rendered her paralyzed with
pain.
Calmly
hyperventilating, she danced between the hundreds of people fawning over the
new silks, gems, and enough perfume that her nose began to run. She recalled
her first memory of the market from over a decade ago—how tall the stalls of
reclaimed wood had seemed then as she clutched her master’s hand and listened
to him explain why she could never touch anyone here. He had lit a cigar that
smelled of luxurious spices and mumbled, “Your kind come in through the hidden
gate. They come looking for a chance at a better life, but they have to work
hard at it. Do you understand?”
Her
meis, the trader’s tongue, hadn’t
been very strong when she was eight years, but she nodded and squeaked, “Yes,
master.”
The
pain in her chest matched the burning of her wrist. “I love you,” she insisted
quietly, voice trembling. “I will work to prove it. To sit in a tea shop
someday as a real person.”
“I
love you, too.” A whisper crept up her spine and eased the sun’s poison. Cy
rested her hand on the small creature in the basket she hid under her cloak.
From what little she could see, he looked like a simple black cat.
No
cat could speak, of course.
Every
time the thought struck, she asked. “Alain, what are you?”
And
his answer would always be, “A cat.”
He
had simply appeared one night while she dug graves for the other faceless
slaves that hadn’t survived the crashing sea. In that lonely hour, a talking
cat hardly seemed unusual compared to the usual people who visited. She named
him Alain, a name that meant “mercy” in the trader’s tongue. They had a mutual
understanding; she would not question his presence and he would comfort her
when the beatings and nights full of empty bellies got beyond her ability to
cope. Whether he was a figment of isolation or something beyond her
comprehension, she didn’t care. He had saved her life enough to convince the
cog it was irrelevant.
“Will
you sing for me?” he asked.
“Will
you tell me what you are?” She tried again.
“A
cat.”
Cy
listened for anyone muttering about her presence. The crowds were too taken by
the new creations of a local seamstress today, it seemed.
“Alright.”
She sucked in her breath and blew out the wild, black curls that clung to her
chapped lips; she didn’t know how to sing. Instead, she clacked her tongue to
mimic the steps of the horses nearby, whistled to mock the oilbirds as they
fought over spare crumbs and followed it with a throaty beat.
Alain
made his own sounds, sounds that Cy had never heard, to accompany her song of
the street.
Of
course, for as long as there had been an Alain, there had been the ripples in
her vision.
Cy
didn’t know what they were, exactly. From what little she could make out among
the shadows and faint blues, the tears always appeared as though someone had ripped paper. They sucked the heat from the area,
drew the color from the paint and sometimes made plants wilt; those were the
big ones.
They
also appeared at the worst times—such as now. This one ripped open right in
front of her, and she almost skidded into it. It stood several heads above her,
even when she stood up straight. Cy looked down at Alain, and he looked back
sternly.
“There
is no time,” he told her.
She
looked into the cold depths of the tear, considering the cat’s words. What
would happen if she left the tear alone? That Cy didn’t know. What she did know
was what would happen if she kept her master waiting.
“Time
must be made,” she decided at last.
Her
head stayed bowed and she stumbled slightly, hoping that the watching guards
would buy her simpleton act. It’d worked well enough for the decade she had
been enslaved.
She
moved towards the tear, the roar of the crimson waves in her mind [CC5] as
she began to sing to it.
The
cold tendrils swept out, snaking through the shadows in her eyes. They pulled
paint from the walls in tiny chips, and she saw fruit that the local
aristocrats were sampling rot slowly in their palms and mouths. How did no one
ever notice?
Cy
braced herself before it like an island amidst tides of people moving about the
marketplace. The tear inhaled color, heat, and the very air from her lips, but
she held fast. The footsteps in the marketplace became her beat and the roaring
chatter a sample platter for her. So, she did the only thing she could. Sing.
Tch, tsk, tch, tsk
Did you see the way she looked at,
Tch, tsk, tat, tat
It’s always so expensive here!
Tat, tsk, mmh, ah,
Why is that cog girl just standing
there-?
In
response, the anomaly rippled and bubbled as though oil was trapped beneath its
surface. Its slashing fury grew stronger against her song.
Cy
had moved close enough to grab the sides and dug her worn fingers in. Her bare
feet scraped the hot stone beneath as she struggled with it, singing loudly.
The people nearby had begun to flicker and grow short of breath. Her eyes
darted over to a stooped woman who had grabbed her chest. She cried out as the
tear let loose what felt like a punch to her diaphragm and stumbled back—they
had never fought back before.
Looking
up, she grew wide-eyed as a misty hand reached through the hostile oddity and
darted for her.
Perhaps
the cages would have been better.
She
scrambled to her feet, narrowly avoiding a crowd of passing artisans who all
cursed her under their breath; if they saw what she did, they might have
understood.
Still,
the anomaly grasped for her. Cy thought of her master’s voice that could freeze
any slave, no matter how hysterical, in their place. Her own was no louder than
a squeaking rat, but she tried to muster up the same tone. “S-Stop!
Immediately!”
To
her surprise, the hand hesitated.
Her
hesitation seemed to irk the anomaly and it lashed out, leaving a cold slash
across her collarbone. Holding in a cry, she jabbed her finger at it and
scolded, “You are not welcome here! Return, i-immediately!”
She
felt Alain’s presence stir at her side, felt it seem to grow bigger than her
own as his voice rumbled in unison with her own:
“Now,” they said together.
Cy
kept her brow furrowed as other hands reached through the tear, these smaller
and glowing a faint blue, and pulled the gnarled, gray hand back inside. As
though she had dismissed a rude guest, the tear even sealed on its own this
time.
A
sigh of relief escaped her, and she murmured her thanks to Alain.
Of
course, Cy should have known better than to have paused. She didn’t flinch as a
set of hands that seemed intent on crushing her arms came around her shoulders.
“Grimoran
city guard,” the disinterested voice announced. “You ought to know better than
to stop outside of your area, cog.” He said the last word with inflection
typically saved for rotting food.
“Come
along.” He sighed and used her as a shield to clear a path through the bustling
market; no one there would be caught dead touching a cog. “Your marks have been
lit up for an entire thirty minutes while you lazed about. Have you a desire to
see the cages, welp?”
“No,
ser.”
“Oh.”
His voice dripped with disdain every time she bumped into his armor. “You are
that simple one, aren’t you? Ah, Master Domirus is always crowing to go easy on
you. Do you share his bed well?”
Despite
herself, Cy flushed red. “Ser, I would respectfully ask that you not shame
master’s name with that assumption.”
He
pushed her through to the small alleyways that veered away from the market and
hugged the gargantuan perimeter wall.
Cy
knew the route, even before the crunch of broken liquor bottles and smell of
burning trash. The straw roofs of the stooped huts announced the presence of
the shantytown, as the guards liked to call it. Her arrester barked for the
gate to be closed behind him, lest any others dare to stray.
Sometimes,
the shantytown would have quiet nights where the cogs would sing or make up
poetry on the spot. With a guard present, the entire town might as well have been
deserted. They moved on, the guard grunting in disgust every few seconds. “You
wear your shame well—who could have any pride living here?”
“No
one, ser.” She chewed her lip.
Up
a total of one hundred and fifty stairs, each she knew by the arrangement of
the cracks and protruding weeds, the sweet smell of cigars filled the air. Her
heart leapt into her throat.
The
guard rapped his knuckles on the heavy door of a vast building overlooking the
shantytown. “Master Domirus?”
The
familiar droll, sensual, and deep voice responded, “Enter.”
Cy
moved inside and instinctively went to her hanging cage; third down from the
first, in front of the one windowpane in his quarters.
“I
caught this cog ignoring your summons in the market, ser.” The guard had
dropped any attitude. If anything, he sounded more afraid than she felt. “Some
observed her talking at nothing and pointing angrily.”
She
swore internally as the bars dug into their usual spots on her legs. It hadn’t
come to mind how silly she had to look scolding something no one else could
see.
Her
master was quiet, and the guard became less and less confident in his
reporting. “And I just wanted to ensure that she was returned, ser.”
Domirus
was letting him squirm. What she didn’t know yet was what the guard had done to
offend him. Her every memory was bathed in the scent of his cologne, the
inflection of disinterest in his every word, and the way people quieted
wherever he walked. Finally, her master murmured, “Cy, will you sing for me?”
Without
hesitation, she began doing her best impression of every beautiful noise she
remembered and blended it into what she hoped was a song.
“What
do you think?” Domirus asked the guard.
“Uh,
it is certainly unlike what I have heard before, ser.”
“Cy
is a little bit of a songbird. I like to call her that, anyways. I named her
‘sigh’ because she made me sigh so much when she was a child.” He gave a long
pause and a puff of his smoke blew into her nose. “I guess I like having a
story to go with my girls. A lot of them do not make the journey to your
circle. I do believe some of my cogs are busy polishing armor at your barracks,
no?”
The
guard fell silent. Cy kept singing, legs shaking under her.
“Ah,
but you did not come to hear of my nostalgia,” Domirus exhaled his smoke and
his chair creaked. “Thank you for escorting her back, ser. I will be sure to
commend you to the captain.”
“Thank
you.” The guard all but stumbled out.
“You
can take a breath,” Domirus told Cy when the door shut.
She
paused, heart fluttering.
“Not
the brightest young man, is he?” the chair creaked again and she could hear the
fine leather of his boots move across the room. “Thoughts?”
Cy
thought about the scenario and quickly realized, “He didn’t tell you his name.”
Domirus
chuckled, “Do you suppose the captain of the guard has many Meij’in lads with a
single freckle on his cheek? I certainly hope not.”
She
admired his wit. She had to. “Well played, master.”
“I
do enjoy a bit of fun outside of business.” He paused and asked, “He didn’t do
anything to offend, did he?”
An
unspoken rule amongst the cogs is that you only ever tattled on a non-cog if
you loathed him enough to not mind the thought of his family burying him.
“Oh,
no, master.” Cy assured. “He simply did his job.”
“I
am glad. Now, of course you know you were late.”
“Yes,
ser.” She admitted.
“I
must ask some hard questions,” his chair squeaked again with his returning
weight. “This is the third time someone has reported a pale cog girl having
‘fits,’ if you will. One gentleman claimed he heard you talking to imaginary
people. A woman in the monastery saw you beating on a wall, and now this.”
Her
stomach cramped with anxiety. Every word he spoke was a poem that she was
desperate to hear told fully.
“The
lender reports are, however, quite good.” Papers shuffled as he commented, “No
complaints on your work ethic – you are on time and learn every job assigned to
you by the borrower. Some have even sent their compliments to me for raising
you so well.”
“Thank
you, master.”
He
sighed deeply, the room smelling of nothing but smoke now. “It is always a risk
to send you out there. My customers see a little blind woman at their beck and
call, and they start to think ill of requesting a slave in the future. None of
the other in my employ have a scampering blind woman in their care, no? Now,
admittedly, most ignore it as they are used to cogs looking pitiable, but too
many are taking a shine to you.”
Her
confusion must have been evident because he clucked his tongue lightly. “Oh, I
know. You are wondering how it is possible to be too pleasing, too commendable
and what not? Truth be told, Cy, you are a sweet girl, but I cannot have my customers
feeling even a tiny twinge of guilt, and with these recent fits some of them
are starting to believe that you are, well, touched in the head.”
Cy
blinked, frozen.
“Can
you explain these outbursts?” He lit another cigar with a flourish of fresh, poisonous
fumes.
“Sun
poisoning, master.” Her voice shook. “The heat merely gets to me sometimes is
all! Please, forgive me!”
Domirus
hushed her. “I do believe you.”
She
exhaled in relief.
“That
does not change the fact that it is hurting my business,” he continued.
The
pain in her chest returned, as if the broken glass in her foot had crawled into
her heart. “Master, please!”
“Ah,
you know I’m fond of you,” he consoled. “You have been fighting for that stamp
into the laborer caste for over a decade. I know you would never go against me.
You have always been my little songbird, always so eager to please and work.”
Domirus paused to inhale his sin and savor it, “Listen. I’ll give you a dose of
opiates beforehand. You’ll sleep right through it.”
Despite
herself, she began to sob. With a grip on the bars, Cy sputtered, “Please!”
The
chair creaked and he moved towards her. His large, oddly smooth hand rested on
her as he stroked his thumb over her crown.
She
nuzzled his hand, shaking. “I only want to stay with you, master. Please, if
you would only let me stay!”
Domirus
leaned his considerable height down and kissed her forehead through the bars.
“No tears, songbird. Once you go to sleep, there will be no more pain. That’s
the best I can give someone in your position.” He ruffled her hair, tone almost
slipping, “They wouldn’t ever have let you remove those chains, sweetling. Even
if you worked a thousand years, this city would have no love for you. I’m sorry.”
“I
do not care about dying!” She wailed, “Please, I only want to stay at your
side!”
He
didn’t answer.
Cy
curled into a ball and rocked herself. Domirus called for his workers to come
and take her cage away.
They
moved her to a cart and locked down a cloth tarp over the cage. The rickety
wheels groaned in protest as they pushed her on.
“I
love you,” she cried into her knees.
Domirus
did not answer. Grimora did not answer.
Alain
pushed himself under her arms and rubbed his head against her chin.
They
bounced and swerved her cart through fetid air. She had been marched down this
path two times and knew there was only one destination.
It
was not long until the quiet dripping from the hollow areas of the winding
tunnel turned into the soaring roar of the ocean beneath.
Soon,
the creaking of rusted chains managed to drown out both the ocean waves
slamming against the cliffs and the other cogs.
When
Cy had last been at the cages, it had been as punishment for spilling tea on a
noblewoman’s carpet - she had gotten three hours. The other time it was for
crying out during a whipping and that had been five; they’d never fully
submerged her.
This
time, it would be until she could cry no more.
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