Dally was wrong: Lyle didn’t give up.
Two days after Jona arrived, Dally found himself wading through a waist-deep snow drift. His tail slashed arcs in the surface, and he panted, breathing in a lung-burning mix of cold air and wyr-oil smoke from the distant village. Beside him Jona’s horse snorted, stumbling on hidden roots. The poor thing didn’t like Dally, at all. Any time Dally so much as glanced sideways the creature twitched, eyes rolling. Jona himself clamped his fingers on the reins, cursing and kicking. The boy’s bored, pale face peered from under a thick cowl of seal fur. Behind them trailed a couple more boys on their own horses, equally cold and miserable. This was hunting. “There,” Jona said. Dally looked where he was pointing, and froze. Between white birch branches a huge, dark shape slowed, and stopped. The animals’ fur was caked in snow, and its breath floated in a soft cloud. It was a deer. An alive one, looking just like those on Yaral’s rug. Its horns seemed bigger, though, twisting and curling into spirals, glittering with frost at the ends. The deer watched them, its massive body tensing. “Go,” Jona hissed, “get it.” Dally twitched, and the deer bolted. Racing after it, through the trees, Dally stumbled, clawed at the icy trunks, snarled as he righted itself. It was so fast. Taller than the horse and more powerful, it somehow seemed to float over the snow in long bounds. In another second it was gone. Jona reigned in the horse next to him, cursing, and snapped his riding whip on Dally’s shoulder. Dally barely glanced up. He was grinning as much as he could in this form, watching the still space where the deer had faded back into the trees. “Useless,” Jona said, turning his horse around. They went hunting each day for the next week, and each day Dally proved he was a city boy by failing to run down a single animal. Truth was, the woods were nearly empty in mid winter. The few deer saw were all much bigger than Dally thought deers were, though, with horns branching in wide arcs like the crowns of frozen trees. When he finally asked Red, she laughed. “They make ‘em like that,” she said. “So when they put the head on the wall, it looks better, y’know?” “Oh,” Dally said, feeling stupid. Of course they’d do expensive chimery on some poor animal, just so Jona could kill it. Of course. Each day they came back drenched with snow-melt and sweat, and Jona would stalk back to his rooms. After a couple days the boy started carrying a heavier dog-whip on him. It still barely hurt, though, and Dally figured the horse got it worse. If Lyle noticed the faint welts, he didn’t seem to care. “He’s coming around,” Lyle told him, “don’t you think?” “Sure, master.” Dally had already been hunting all day. His hair was stuck down to his head with sweat, and his bones felt heavy and hot inside his limbs. The more he agreed, the sooner he could go to sleep. “You were right, your boy’s got a good head for this.” The same night, Gita sent her maid down to the barrack with a lamp, to bring Dally up. When he reached her quarters, the cigarette smoke was thicker than the incense. She was sprawled on one of her lounges, draining the end of a glass of wine. “You’re late.” This was how it had been, recently. Gita had always tolerated Dally, but seeing him with Jona was more than she could take. She stalked around the manor, finding scratches on door frames and un-aired closets. The thralls and servants learned to steer far around her, and to keep their eyes on the floor. Dally stared at the floor now. “Sorry, mistress.” “It’s bad enough you have no respect for Jona,” she said, “I won’t be made to wait for you.” “It won’t happen again.” A long moment passed, before she let out a stream of smoke through her nose. “The campaign dinner is tomorrow night. Do you know what that is?” “Yes.” “It’s the last fundraising opportunity we’ll have, and we still need Kolsch and Sorano to make public support statements. Sorano will be there, of course.” Dally knew all that, on account of he’d been the one to tell her. He waited while she stabbed her cigarette out into the bottom of her wine glass. “That man is a snake,” she said. “Sorano?” “You’ll see. You’ll watch him for me. Especially when he talks to my husband.” Dally only knew about Leon Sorano from Lyle, who talked about him all soft-smiling and misty-eyed. In a way it made Dally feel sorry for the guy. Sorano was a Wesend council member, the nephew of some second-tier prince. “What am I watching for?” he asked. “If I knew that,” Gita said, “I wouldn’t need you. Pay attention.” The next day, Dally killed a deer. He wasn’t faster, or trying harder. He’d just learned the woods, and he knew where there was a steep gully. Instead of blindly chasing, Dally drove the deer on and on through the trees, with the sound of Jona’s horse fading behind him. The deer stumbled on the snow-covered rock slope, and silently struggling back upright. It was too slow, though. Dally caught one of the glittering antlers in his fist. Then he dragged the deer closing, biting the massive neck, tearing, until the animal slowed down and then it stopped, turning heavy and soft in his grip. Apart from Seth, Dally only ever killed rats and pigeons before. He stared in confusion at the deer’s blank, dark eye, feeling nothing except cold adrenaline. This wasn’t like Seth, but his heart was still pounding far too hard. Finally he swallowed the blood in his mouth, and looked up to see Jona standing over him. “You ruined the pelt,” the boy said, but he didn’t raise his whip. “I suppose you can carry it back, now.” Dally did, and hung it up outside the kitchen shed like the human cooks told him. Finally he smiled, then, hearing them talk about how big the deer was, and look at those antlers, and maybe they could eat some themselves. One man hacked off the bony part of the deer’s hind leg, and handed it to Dally like a great prize. The piece was mostly fur and hoof, but Dally cracked the bone enough to lick the marrow out, scraping with the serrated edge of his tongue. The cooks laughed, and let him sit in the shelter of the stoop to finish it. Then Dally took one of his cigarettes out, and appreciated the cooks stares while he smoked it. It was the night of the campaign dinner, and everyone not already on duty got herded to the bath. They sat in there for a full hour. Dally sank himself up to his eyes, scrubbing away the deer blood while everyone else politely pretended not to see him. That felt good. For a while after that he cut Red’s hair, and snapped the few spines off her scalp. It was weirdly quiet - no one was looking forward to hanging around drunk humans for a whole night. An hour later, Dally was trailing Lyle through a crowd getting thicker every second. The band was just starting to drone with their tight-wound human music. Five minutes after that, Lyle was showing him to a young lady dripping diamonds. She squealed in fake terror as Lyle put Dally’s arm around her, and then laughed as she skipped away. Though they had only just got here, all the women were already acting drunk. It let them gather in small, giggling clusters, well away from the men. The governor was in a good mood. Soon after, he put his champagne flute in Dally’s hand, and then left it there while he went to talk to a baron. When he was sure no-one was looking, Dally tipped back half of it in a long gulp. Then he passed the rest to Marsh, the nearest thrall. “I can’t,” Marsh said. “Blame it on me.” Dally grinned, and pressed the glass into Marsh’s hands. His cheeks were hot, though there was no way he was drunk yet. Marsh took the drink, and then another one when Lyle did the same thing half an hour later. Dally got shown to an opera singer, two counts and the CEO of Omai Mercantile. None of them had intel worth remembering, and the CEO tried to snap off one of the bone-spines behind Dally's ear. It didn't hurt anything except the man's pride - those were stuck on pretty good. Dally was starting to itch under the heavy wool dress uniform. Where the hell was Sorano? Gita would blame Dally if he came back without anything useful. Near midnight, he'd managed to get actually tipsy from stolen booze. Lyle took him to see a army guy, maybe a general. At least, he had some bars on his collar and a chest full of gleaming medals. Lyle pointed Dally at a spot in front of the two of them, and smiled when Dally obediently went to stand there. "You see?" he asked the general. "Mine aren’t made like that," the general said, "you should see them; the dregs they send us. You can't teach that type discipline. They don’t have the sense for it, and anyway there's too many of them." Too many? Dally's blank stare finally locked on the man’s face. How could there be too many thralls on the front? Lyle blinked. "I thought there weren't enough?” "Hm. Well. The real problem is there aren't enough men to keep the damn thralls working. We're down to less than a thousand officers over the whole effort, did you know that? Young men these days are too soft for the Front. They’d rather hunt, eh? Girls or game." “I wouldn’t know,” Lyle said. “My son served. Mariel served at Ostenlied.” “Of course I didn’t mean your boy.” The general smiled. “Just most young men, you see? Gambling and whoring, shopping for earrings while the Brairi push north...” The General’s ‘coddled youth’ speech trundled on, like a tram-car running on a worn track. Dally stared into space, trying to think through the buzz of liquor. One thousand humans on the front couldn’t be right. That must mean a few hundred thralls for every human. Dally almost didn’t notice a young man coming up, not until Lyle’s focus snapped away from the general. “Leon,” Lyle said. Leon Sorano smiled. Dally thought he got it, then; why Lyle fawned over this man. Sorano had bright teeth, slightly crooked, and a small birthmark on his upper lip. A heavy brow shadowed dark eyes, against his dark northerner skin. He wasn’t exactly pretty, not until he looked at you. But he was doing that now, looking right at Dally. Lyle led the two of them off, abandoning the General to a plate of canapes. “So?” he asked Sorano, waving at Dally. “What do you think?” “Isn’t that Dally Harper?” Lyle beamed. “I knew you would like him. You liked the fight, of course.” “I did.” The smile Sorano flashed at Dally didn’t reach his eyes. “Commendable work.” “Thank you,” Dally said. Sorano turned back to Lyle. “I didn’t know you’d buy him, though. It’s a risk, isn’t it? Buying thralls? The Requisition Act comes in next week." Lyle's face stiffened. “You the one who told me I ought to,” he said. “You said I ought to, if I wanted.” “Ah...” Sorano waved it off, apologetic, “maybe I was drunk. Well, I’m sure it’ll be alright.” Dally opened his mouth before he knew what he was doing. “Requisition? Like in the fifties?” “Shh, Dally,” Lyle said. “He’s talkative, this one. Isn’t he sweet, though?” “Yes.” Sorano was watching Dally’s face, unreadable. He smiled back at Lyle. “Forgive me, of course you’ll find a way to keep them.” They started on some human politics, and Dally stopped listening. There was a sound in his head like distant thunder, and the words Requisition Act played over and over. That and Gita’s voice, telling him she’d found a buyer. She’d even smiled while she said it. Humans thought thralls didn’t know any history, but that was only because they couldn’t understand the songs. In the last Requisition, almost all the privately owned thralls in Savos got taken by the Corps, and packed into rail cars to the South Front. They went untrained, used to working construction and living in thrall houses. Most of them never came back. The ones that did brought songs to remember it, the kind that cut in your throat when you sang them. Humans remembered the Requisition, too; they remembered never getting paid for their stolen property. Which meant, after everything, that there was no buyer. No sane man would buy Dally now. Lyle’s hand clamped on his arm, jolted him back to the real world. “Listen,” he was telling Sorano, “it’s late. Stay the night with us.” It sounded like a natural offer, but Lyle was reeling Dally in, clawing drunkenly at his sleeve. ‘Us’ didn’t mean Gita. Dally’s fingers clenched on the pommel of his saber. Sorano smiled, faint and diplomatic. “That’s very kind,” he said, “but I have to be in Nirov tomorrow morning.” “They’ll hold the railcar for you.” “I have to be sober in Nirov, I should say, and rested.” He was already backing away. “There’s always the election ball?” Lyle trailed after him, helplessly swaying a few steps behind. “I suppose.” On his way past, Sorano put a hand on Dally’s shoulder, gripping a little too tight. “Nice to meet you.” Dally glanced up, but Sorano was already gone. “Ah, well,” Lyle said, “just us.”
1 Comment
Dally sang a lot louder, for the next few days, with his rough voice and off key. It got bad enough that Red asked why he was so happy, and then he looked at her and got quiet. There was no way the senator would buy her too. Or Lane, or any of the others.
“How long now?” he asked Gita, at their next meeting. “Three months,” she said. Then, a couple of days later; “Three months, and you best not ask again. What’s the name of that female, the one with the eye?” Dally stopped asking. After a while he stopped singing, too, going back to quietly humming along. Back when Dally was a dumb kid, always running and touching, his mother had threatened him with stories about the great mage houses. “You quit that,’ she told him, ‘or I’ll send you to the magi.” Maybe she would pinch his arm; “You’re a skinny boy, but young meat’s the best. They eat thrall every day, those men.” Now Dally saw it was all true. This place was eating him; eating his brain right out of his skull. Boredom. Whenever he stood around outside Lyle’s office he would whisper conversation with whoever else was posted there, until they got tired of him. Then he picked at the hem of his jacket, and tapped the hilt of the stupid saber. Maybe he tried playing the perfect round of serbat against himself, swapping rhymes back and forth in his head. More and more, though, he stared at the walls. It got so he knew every vine in the floral wallpaper, every hairline crack in the tiles. His boot heels were getting thin on the back edge, from how much he rocked in place. He stared at the walls and waited for Lyle, with hair rising on the back of his neck. In a way that was like waiting for a fight; the sick nerves were there, and the buzz too. Lyle was the only thing that ever happened in this place. Lyle pushed drinks and good human food on him, and looked at him, and took him places. Was this how Lane got all screwed up? On one cloudy afternoon, Lyle came out of his office and put a hand around the back of Dally’s neck, the way you would to make a dog look at something. As if Dally wasn’t already looking. The other thrall - Tol - stared past them at the wall. “Now,” Lyle said, quiet, “I hope you know Jona will be home today. Come and we’ll have a talk.” Dally could only blink, and follow him. Jona was not someone Lyle talked about. In a dark, gilded lounge, the governor made him sit. “He’s a fine young man,” he said, “my son. I’ve told you about him.” Not true. “Yes, master.” “You know he’s a fine boy. Fine boy. Well, but he’s been troubled. It’s ah, it’s this problem with Mariel - that’s my other son. They were very close.” Dally glanced away. “I see.” The ‘problem’ with Mariel that he got killed in the war. Dally shouldn’t know that, though. He bought that information with Gita’s cigarettes. “You could say,” Lyle went on, “that Jona he idolised him. Do you know what that means? He thought he was a shining knight, you see, a mythic kind of hero. Do you understand?” “I think so, Master.” “Good, so. Of course he sees me the same way, you know. The way boys see their fathers. Dally - There’s whisky there, pour some for us-” Dally did, grateful - he needed the distraction. Lyle kept talking. “I think he needs a young, brave sort of idol, though. His mother has her claws in him - that’s why I sent him to that school. But they only teach him books, there, not character. I fear she’s already ruined him, but not beyond hope.” As soon as the drink was in his hand he gulped, winced. “That’s why I brought you here.” Dally froze, with his glass halfway to his mouth. Lyle was just watching him, like this conversation was normal and made sense. “Thank you, Master,” Dally guessed. Lyle smiled. “I knew you’d understand. So. I’ll have him take you hunting, things like that. Of course I’d go, but my back-” he sighed, and reached to lay a hand on Dally’s arm. Lyle’s back was a national tragedy. “In any case a young man should learn to handle thralls. He’ll love you, of course. You’re loyal, and you have a good temperement.” Loyal? Loyal. Damn. This was it; this was what Dally got for ‘saving’ Lyle at that protest. Now Dally was a good thrall, like on the posters. Now he could easily replace Jona’s dead brother; being his pet and his hero at the same time. Perfect. And while Dally played out this flawless plan, he wouldn’t be getting the information he needed to keep Gita happy. This would all end with him in that back room, screaming. Dally had kept his face blank, but his arm had tensed under Lyle’s hand. The governor frowned at him. “You’re not worried, are you?” “I- maybe, Master. I mean, I want to do right by your boy but-” He glanced around the room, desperate. “Who’s going to protect you?” Lyle’s mouth twitched. He squeezed Dally’s arm. “It’s just for a little while, I’ll be alright.” The boy came that afternoon. His car had run hard to get there from the school in Savos, and you could tell. It’s armoured sides were heaving when it pulled up, and it sank on it’s belly before the doors even open. In the frozen night Dally was the only one waiting, silent, with dusk snow settling on his shoulders. He was holding a coat for Jona, one Lyle had plucked at random from the boy’s room. Steam poured from the doors as they opened, like a breath into the freezing air. Dally crept closer, and stopped as a young human clambered out of the cabin. Jona face was narrow but familiar, as if Lyle was whittled down to nothing. He was tall for his age and pale even for a southerner, so pale you could almost see through him. He had Gita’s green cat eyes, though, which looked strange surrounded by such soft features. Dally hadn’t been around human children, but if Jona was a thrall he would have been about fourteen. The boy snatched the coat, like he was worried Dally would try to put it on him. “Mother told me he bought another one,” he said, acid. Shit. “Can’t have too many, young master.” Dally swayed awkwardly in place. “Your parents are waiting inside.” Jona was staring at him, slow, up and down. His cat’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like a human at all.” Before Dally could blink Jona swerved past him. Inside the house the boy marched straight towards Gita’s rooms, with Dally jogging to catch up. Then he turned, and shut the door in Dally’s face. Left alone in the corridor, Dally scratched at the hilt of his saber, and moved himself awkwardly into a corner. Homunculi passed him, back and forth. Maybe Dally imagined it, but their smooth faces had a pitying kind of stare. Why? At least he wasn’t with Lyle, right? It was dark when the humans finally came out, and Dally was slumped against the doorframe. He stumbled to attention, with Gita staring at him. She looked looked surprised to see him, Jona disgusted. “Come along,” the boy said. Dally turned a blank look on Gita, but she had nothing to say about that. Both of them followed. As they walked she drifted closer, leaning to murmur under her breath; “I hope you’re not following my son around.” Dally didn’t look at her. If he did he might let out the helpless laugh building in his throat. “It’s your husband’s idea,” he said. “You know, to make him a man? Something like that.” “Make him a man.” It felt like her glare was burning into his cheek. “Don’t worry about it,” Dally muttered, “he’ll give up when he sees how great it’s working.” They reached the dining room, where the table was set and Lyle was waiting with a half-full cup of wine. He didn’t stand, just waved Jona over to him. The sullen boy sat with him, and accepted a cup of his own from a servant. While Lyle made awkward hellos Jona drained the cup, and stuck his arm out for a refill. “Is that girl of yours still there?” Lyle asked his son, “The Unwin girl? Her father and I-” “I wouldn’t know,” Jona said, “I stopped talking to her years ago. Besides she’s a skip, you know? Couldn’t light a candle. Dull girl.” ‘Skip’? Dally had to search his head for that one; Jona probably meant the aurum-rich blood skipped a generation with this girl. Lyle laughed like it was a dirty joke, which fit. For people who never did any magic, they cared a lot about their magic blood. Gita was barely listening- she didn’t care about any of this. She ate behind a veil of smoke, watching her boy with a soft kind of smile. It was only when Lyle called Dally to the table that she remembered they existed. Her smile disappeared. “Now? Tonight?” Lyle had a hunk pork speared on a knife. He threw it down on his plate again, a clatter that rang in the sudden silence. “Alright,” he said, “let’s have it.” “You’re feeding your pet in front of your son. It’s disgusting-” “He’s not a pet-” They were talking over each other already. Dally let a low breath and rocked on his heels, until he remembered where he was. Lyle and Gita’s fights got boring fast, and this was already old. Because he hadn’t been dismissed he had to stay by Lyle’s elbow, staring at the food he wouldn’t get. His own rations tasted worse these days, less filling. Maybe with the shortages the feed company really was cutting it with sawdust, like the wards said. Or, maybe Dally really was getting spoiled- “Here,” Jona said, sugary sweet. “Here, Dally.” The fight slowed. As Jona’s parents watched, the boy took a carving fork and speared one of the big river trout from the center of the table. It dangled, dripping juice, until he flung it whole on the floor. “There you go.” Dally glanced at the fish, still good, lying on the tile, then back up. Jona looked proud, like he had just invented this game all on his own; screw with the thrall. Dally was meant to not want the fish, now, because for humans it was humiliating to eat something that touched the floor. A whole damn fish. He snatched it up before they could tell him not to, and tore the tail end off with his teeth. Hot fat spillled over his tongue, bone crackled against his gums. It had some weird flavours, spice and salt, but mostly tasted of good meat. He took another bite as Jona laughed. Clear juice ran over his fingers. His eyes narrowed, blissful. “Don’t-“ Lyle hesitated, and rubbed his mouth with a hand. It wasn’t actually an order, so Dally kept chewing. Jona’s cackling was getting thinner, now, and his smile quickly fell away. By the time Dally crammed the fish head in his mouth all the humans were silent, watching him. The skull was soft from cooking, but it still took a second to crack and swallow. They stared, Dally stared blandly back. “Jona,” Lyle said, “apologize.” “Father-” “You made him eat it.” Gita stood, smoothed out her skirt. “We’re leaving.” She held out an arm until Jona latched onto it. They marched out like that, while Lyle tried to call them back. Safely ignored, Dally licked his teeth, and used his uniform sleeve to wipe his mouth. Three months. Three months passed. Dally was a good spy, and waited.
He’d wait for Lyle at the office, or in the corner of the room as he dressed. Maybe they would go somewhere on the campaign. Those were the better days, because no one had time to drink or sit around. He saw the mine towns, with their slow-pulsing organs rooting into the ground, and a herd of cows being packed like thralls into a train car. Once, they toured a factory, where cars and other machines came out hot and wet from their eggs. Dally had never seen something like that. The poor pillbug babies rolled steaming on the floor, smelling of solder and birthing fluid. Men had to scoop them up, and press their limbs straight before their shells could harden too much. Gita seemed alright with his reports, maybe even happy. She answered her door, and she leaned in to listen. Sansi wasn’t wrote on again, or any of the others. Dally and Gita said a lot of true things to each other, which felt weird, and wrong. Talking to a human all honest. Still, she didn’t tell him to stop. Maybe he was honest because he wasn’t sleeping much. The feel of Lyle’s hands lingered like grease, and not Gita or anyone else could really scrape him off. When Dally did sleep he still saw Seth Greenlees, and woke up flinching, drenched in sweat. In his dreams the poor bastard died over and over, and then came back alive as Dally ate him. Sometimes Seth asked quiet questions, mostly he screamed. When Dally woke up he could never remember the questions. It nagged him. What did Seth want to ask? It was fine. Dally just had to wait; eventually the dreams would fade, like the other times something stuck in his head. It would be better when he got sold. Until then, though, his eyes were dry and red, and he looked pale when he saw himself in reflections. When people asked if he was okay he answered real slow, or not at all. He coughed. And he did take some of his cigarettes back from Red, one by one, until she moved the bundle somewhere and wouldn’t tell him where. Winter closed around the house like a crushing fist. One morning Dally woke up in the dark, and saw the windows were blacked out with snow. He brought Lyle the paper, and in return was given a slice of bread from the table. Dally was finally getting used to that - scraps of human food. He only hesitated for a second before taking it, retreated to a spot by the door to eat. The bread was warm from the oven, steaming, and smelled fresh and good. Lyle’s food was all like that. Gita made a sound of faint disgust. “Why do you sigh like that?” Lyle asked her. “I’m not sighing.” “Well, you have something to say, then, don’t you?” Gita tapped ash from her cigarette, eyes narrowing. “It’s... ridiculous to give him food from the table,” she said, finally. “He has his own food. You’ll only make him fat.” “Fat?” “You’ll spoil him. I hope you won’t act like this in front of Jona.” “I’ll feed him whatever I like,” Lyle said. “Besides, he likes it, don’t you Dally?” "Ye-” Dally had already crammed most of the slice of bread in his mouth, had to pause to chew. “Master.” “He’s a thrall,” Gita said, “he’d like garbage just as well, or a rotting corpse.” In answer Lyle just held out another slice to Dally. “Here.” Dally snatched it, and didn’t look to see what Gita thought. Bread was easily better than garbage, so she was wrong there. It wasn’t as good as meat, but you couldn’t have everything. Gita sniffed. “Will you meet those Anvil men again today?” she asked Lyle. Shit, that was not something she should know. Dally kept his eyes down, chewing. Lyle’s cheeks was slowly going red. “Who says I’ve met with them at all?” “Oh, you know,” she said, “ladies talk.” “Ladies.” Lyle sniffed. “Well, you need not worry yourself.” “I just think you could do better, with this Farham business-” The governor’s chair squealed as he stood. “It’s none off your concern.” As they left Dally shot a blank look over his shoulder at Gita. She glared back, like this was somehow his fault. His heart pounded, as he trailed after Lyle toward the cars. Gita shouldn’t have known any of that. There weren’t many people in on these meetings they’d been having, and sure as hell no ‘ladies’. Dally was in all of them, though. Every single one. Was Lyle thinking that, too? Lyle chewed his lip, not even looking at him. “Do your females nag so much?” Dally blinked, struggled to switch gears. “No, Master,” he guessed, at random. That must have been what Lyle wanted, because he gave Dally a bitter smirk. “I thought not,” he said. “Much more simple, your kind.” They were going to Parliament. Outside the snow was blinding, but the sky was dee blue. Lyle had Dally ride on the flank, so the whole campaign team could fit in the cab. Pretty soon they were skittering through the fresh snow, down the slope from the manor. The car’s legs clawed at the buried road, kicking up white clouds. From his perch Dally could see the escort car, with Red and a few others hanging off the sides. Okay? she gestured at him. He returned it. Okay. The others tried yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear anything under the roaring wind. After a while he could tell they were singing, but he couldn’t hear that either. Dally turned to the homunculus, clinging to the other side of the cabin. “You sing?” he yelled. It stared, for a long time. Then it raised one thick hand to point. “Me?” Dally asked. “You want me to?” Silence. “I’m not much to listen to.” The stare continued. “Well,” Dally said, “you just say when you want me to stop. ” Singing alone felt strange but good, even though the wind shredded the sound right out of his mouth. The damn clay man didn’t tell him to stop at all, not before they were galloping between city tower blocks. Dally’s throat hurt by then, anyway. His arms ached from clinging and it felt like he breathed more air in the last two hours than all of the three months before. He was smiling. His grin lasted until they reached the crowd. It was just a couple of humans, at first, blocking the road as they stared. Then there were fifty, a hundred, hundreds, getting closer and packed and loud. The snow under the car’s claws was already stamped to grey slush, and their wild gallop slowed to a crawl. As they pushed into the crowd Dally flattened himself to the armored flank, cringing to avoid bumping any humans. The whole crowd was staring at the car’s fogged windows. A few pointed at Dally, and he picked out dirty tones; ‘Anvil corporation’ and something about Seth Greenlees. Mostly they yelled, though, and chanted; ‘Human hands built this city’. It was a protest, Dally realised, feeling stupid. He found himself wide eyed, the way he was first seeing Seth. This was real live politics. Beyond the crowd the Parliament building glowed in the late sun, with all it’s spires and grooves casting long shadows. A bronze disk for Amn shone mirror-bright over the door, so big the nearest people were squinting. And shivering. Were they okay? It was cold already - their breath steamed in the frozen air. Not all of them had coats. Lyle burst into the crowd, and the chants disintegrated into screamed insults. A second later he disappeared, surrounded by the pack of flunkies from his car. Around them the thralls from the escort formed a kind of lazy wedge shape, shepherding the humans towards the parliament. Dally attached himself to the group, and watched the crowd melt away from around them. The humans had a hard time backing up fast enough. They yelped, tripping over each other. Lyle’s group forced their way easy enough to the steps, where the crowd was broken off by a police line. They were waved through, and the membrane seal around the door rippled before parting. Dally was about to follow them inside, when a hand snatched his arm. “We don’t go in,” Red yelled, over the noise. “Aren’t we his security?” “Only out here. Capital Sec has their own guys in there, you know? Vets. Real scary.” She looked a little wistful. “They get better outfits than us, too.” Now it was just them and the cops, the howling from the crowd was fading. The chants started up again, rhythmic and already hoarse. Red hummed, watching them. “Wonder what they want?” “They’re Farham and Dunham workers unions.” Dally mumbled, he was already rocking in place, leaning to try and peer through the windows. “They want the Gov to stop throwing all the state construction contracts to thrall corporations, so they can get a little work for a change. Dunham’s a safe seat, though. They won’t get shit from him.” Red was looking at him like he’d grown a second head. “What’s a union?” It took a while to explain that. He had to talk about why unions came up in the factories and spread to construction, and how this winter was colder than normal, how the wyr oil subsidy ended last year and how the Brairi took and razed the Green Dish and all the barley and wheat in it. Now a guy like Hannock could maybe afford heat for his kids, or food, but not both. By the time he was done she was frowning at the crowd, biting her lip. “It’s hard to be human, huh?” Lyle was gone for hours, while Dally paced and tapped the hilt of his saber. The shadow of the gold tower grew longer, stretching over the crowd. Their chants faded into bitter mumbles, rising and falling in waves. Lyle’s cars were surrounded now by people leaning on their warm flanks. Still, most of the protestors stayed. The ones that didn’t were replaced, and then some, with more joining from the back as their shifts ended. They started fires, and passed around dark glass bottles without labels. As the sun set the calls got rougher, slurring together: ‘Lyle must have trouble talking with Anvil’s cock in his mouth.’ ‘Lyle should fuck a thrall, if he loved them so much.‘ “I don’t know about this,” Dally said. Without pockets he’d stuck his freezing hands inside the thin front of the uniform jacket. Red was drawing in the sleet with her toe, and didn’t look up. “Like you said, they’re real mad.” They were. When the Parliament doors finally opened again the crowd seemed to take a deep breath, before letting out an animal howl. The front of the protest marched closer to the police line, screaming, then were shoved from behind, staggered, and crashed into it. First one, then dozens of men fell through. The cops turned around to hit them, kick them, pull them back. Dally watched a baton clip a man’s shaved head, and vivid blood spilled down his face. Of course human blood was the same red as thralls, but he’d never thought about it before. He only realised he was frozen when Red shook him. “Would you look at that,” Lyle was saying to an aide, “ridiculous, isn’t it? But we’ll get through them.” He had a soft little smile on, like things were going well. The thrall escort formed up again. Kit was the biggest, so she took the point and started punching her way into the crowd. The others shoved after, and Dally made himself follow. They got about ten feet. This time the crowd couldn’t make a path for them. Inside the crush of bodies it was hot, somehow and slick under-foot with mud. The humans around them flinched, struggled, but couldn’t back away. A wall of bodies crushed them forwards in a tangle of bodies. Dally, wide-eyed, caught a shrieking woman as she was shoved into him. He set her back on her feet, but not before she scrambled, tearing at his cheek with her nails. The humans shuddered as they brushed up against him. Dally shrank, putting his hand gingerly on their shoulders or backs to squeeze past. “They can’t move,” Red yelled in his ear. To prove it she bared sharp teeth at the nearest human, shoved him hard in the chest. Dally’s heart lurched. He almost grabbed her, but the guy had already got back up, and was screaming uselessly at their backs. Right - they were security. This was fine. The bubble they made for Lyle was somehow calm, and the governor was taking his time. He skirted the slush puddles, still muttering to the aide. The crowd surge didn’t reach him, and he didn’t see the brick coming. It glanced off the side of Dally’s head, before skidding through the slush Lyle’s feet. Everything blurred, as Dally tried to shake his head clear. A rock whisked past, then more until they were coming down like rain - wet gravel, bigger stones. Dally caught the next brick in clawed fingers, just reached up and plucked it out of the air, ten feet up. The people closest to him shrieked, and turned, trying to claw through the crowd to get away. They were a lot shorter than Dally, now, and his breath steamed in a cloud as he snarled at them. Numbly he realised he’d torn his uniform, changing shape when he shouldn’t. This was very bad, and wrong. It was a lot better above the crowd, though, where the air was cold and he could breath again. People tangled with his legs and tail, but he just shook them off. The rocks bounced off his sides, rattled through spines down the back of his neck. One man hacked at his knee with a length of copper pipe, and Dally yelped, kicking reflexively. The man staggered, then disappeared under the boots of the crowd At least Lyle had finally seemed to notice what was going on. He jogged with agonising slowness towards the cars, snapping his fingers like Dally should catch up. He did, but by the time he got there they were already pulling away. In this form he could keep up - barely - and the others watched wide-eyed as he sprint after them. A while later the car slowed, and Dally did too, taking huge hacking breaths. He’d been running on his clawed hands and feet, scrabbling at snow and concrete just to keep up. His fingers had gone numb. They were still in the city, which was now glowing with wyrlight in the dark. It was starting to snow again, but Dally’s sweating body seemed to burn a hole in the cold. Snowflakes settled on him and melted instantly. In one of the tenement windows above them a bare-chested human boy was staring at him with huge eyes. Lyle’s car door opened, spilling gold light. An aide carefully stepped out, his shoulders stiff with rage. The man looked up at Dally, and Dally figured this was it - he pushed Lyle too far. He’d be sent to that back room where sansi went, and Gita would abandon him - “Get in,” the aide said, and flung a blanket at him, before stalking back towards the escort car. He got in. Lyle waved him over immediately, and made him squeeze next to him, actually crushed against the side of a PR flack. There was a half inch of whisky in the bottom of Lyle’s glass. He touched the wet patch in Dally’s hair, rubbed the blood between his fingers. “You-” he turned to the nearest flunky. “Didn’t you see what he did?” “Yes, Lord Governor.” These men all had a trained blankness, but it was never actually hard to read them. They were seething. Lyle’s mouth trembled. “He saved my life.” “That’s as may be, my lord, but he should be told how to act-” “He did what he had to. Didn’t you?” Dally curled his fingers into his scraped palms, swallowed. He was still panting. “Of course, master.” The aide turned that bland look on him, and licked his teeth. They both knew Dally was lying: some guy threw a brick, and Dally had to change form for that? Really? Lyle’s face was getting all soft, his mouth drooping with too much feeling. “Maybe you should all get out,” he said, suddenly, “I think you all need to go. Not you, Dally.” The cabin still felt crowded when they were gone. Lyle leaned into him, as if they still had to squeeze in. He put a hand on his cheek, forcing Dally to look right at him. “I hope you know how fond I am of you.” Was Dally meant to say that too? I love you? A good spy would say it. The damp heat of Lyle’s hand was cutting through the thin shield of melted snow. Finally Dally nodded, feeling stupid. Lyle didn’t even notice. He made a soft noise, dragging him closer. That night, Gita’s rooms had a thicker than normal fog of smoke. She was wrapped in it like a veil, looking cooly from under her eyelashes. For a while she looked him up and down. “Aren’t you lucky,” she said. “He should have had you writ on. Acting like an animal in front of the press.” Dally had wiped the blood off his face, but hadn’t gone to the baths yet. Sweat had gone cold all over him. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t even focus enough to fake an expression for her. “It was bad.” he said. “Of course it was bad, stupid thrall.” “They hated him.” “So you decided to make it worse? Do you know, I had started to think you you had a little cunning, a little subtlety-” “You find me a buyer, yet?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked, not by a long shot. Usually she looked annoyed, and this time he thought she might actually hit him. Instead she smiled, her eyes narrowing to blue slits. “I told you I would,” she said. Dally coughed, choking on a sudden tight feel in his throat. “Who?” “First, apologise.” “Mistress, please-” “Apologise.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “I- I don’t know why I did it. It won’t happen again.” “You’re a stunning example of how thralls act without discipline,” she said, and took a deliberately slow drag. Dally waited, silent. “Honor Wately,” she said, eventually. “The senator?” “Mhm.” It had taken a while, but Gita had finally stopped acting surprised when Dally knew something. “What does he want me for?” “How should I know?” She frowned, stamping her cigarette out. “You’re just lucky I found someone with currency Tannis will take. He very much needs the Occupancy bill to go through, you see, and Wately will cross the floor...” She kept going, but Dally couldn’t pay attention to the details, couldn’t even care that he was getting traded in some weird backroom deal. It didn’t matter. He was almost smiling, and rubbed his mouth to hide it. Two months left and he’d be gone. The next day Dally tried following Red again, as she went to claim the office post. Before they got halfway there Hannock stepped into their path. The ward was much more awake, and cheerful if not actually smiling. He smelled of smoke under the reek of damp wool.
“Not you, Dally,” he said, “you’re off to the parlour.” Dally blinked. “I don’t, uh-” “Red will show you.” As they both stared at him his face went flat. “Well? On your way.” Red did show him, trailing a hand along the bare concrete of the servant passages. The longer they walked the more sideways looks she shot at Dally, like he had something on his face. Or, like she was trying to think of something to say. “It’s a nice day,” Dally said. “What?” “It’s sunny. You know, outside?” “Oh.” Maybe it was, but winter had seeped into the house, coating all the windows with fog. His toes had gone numb, and everything smelled like burning wyr oil. They stopped at an anonymous door, and she gave him a too-hard thump on the shoulder. By the time Dally figured out she was leaving him she was already gone, anxiously rubbing her neck as she stalked away. Dally lingered at the parlour door, listening to her footsteps fade. Fire glow slipped through the cracks in the wood, and there was the faint tink of china on the other side. Who knew what mood the boss was in? Lane hadn’t talked to Dally since the night before, and Dally sure as hell wasn’t going to ask what happened. Dally couldn’t stand here all day, though - you couldn’t get around your owner. At least he was a spy now, right? He ducked through the door, and closed it soft behind him. When he turned around Lyle was beaming at him, leaning forward in his seat at the breakfast table. The governor was still in slippers and a house coat, cheeks red from the cold. “See?” he asked Gita. She glanced up from reading a novel, her eyes narrowing behind a veil of smoke. There was ten feet of table between the two humans, weighed down with piles of food on gilt china. Black coffee sent off a plume of steam, and the scent mixed with the smell of melting butter. Gita had a delicately arranged plate in front of her, fruit and quail eggs drenched in syrup. As she watched Dally, she carefully peeled the crust off of a pastry and ate it. Otherwise, her food was untouched. “I’ve been waiting to get a look at you,” she said, “the great prize. But, maybe you’re slower outside the ring? Where were you? Lyle’s mouth twitched as he looked at her. “Dally, this is Gita,” he said, before completely ignoring her. “You’re settled? I thought you’d like it here. You do, don’t you?” “Yes, Master.” That wasn’t enough, though - the governor’s stare was still on him. “Everyone’s been real sweet.” Gita gave him a lizard’s smile, without even taking the cigarette from her lips. Lyle liked the answer, though. “Of course they are,” he said, pleased. He settled back into his chair, folded his hands. “Well. Go get the paper for me, there’s a good lad.” And that was it. When he came back with the paper, Gita abandoned her food almost instantly, bullshitting about a headache. That left Dally stood there, stiff and awkward, while Lyle scraped at his plate. Everything was slow. After that they went to Lyle’s rooms so he could dress, and it took what felt like two hours. Claymen showed him one shirt then another identical shirt. Ties, sash, handkerchief. Lyle looked at the ties, then looked at Dally, to make sure he was watching, before choosing. After a while the secretary told Lyle through the door that the campaign directors were waiting. Dally, standing with a coat over his arm, blinked at her. There was an election on? Let them wait, Lyle said. When they finally got out, the campaign team glanced up with dull eyes before going back to their papers. They were used to it. A couple of them closed novels they’d been reading and stood, like they had been sitting on a train and this was finally their stop. Then Lyle made them all look at Dally, and admire him. Then, finally, the politics started. Pretty soon Dally figured out why Gita picked him; the humans forgot he was there. It only took about three seconds. Dally’s face was blank, because that was important, but no one looked at him anyway. Even Lyle only stared at him in the lulls, bored and wistful. One time a junior-whatever put a cup of tea in Dally’s hand, and took it back off him five minutes later. Like he was an end table. It wasn’t like the spying was easy, though. By the time they were done his head was spinning, trying to keep all the names straight. His leg wanted to bounce from so much standing still. He must have looked dazed, after, because Lyle pet his back. That woke him right up, made him stand rigid until the touch drifted away. “It’s all new for you, isn’t it?” Lyle said. “But it’s an improvement, I think, living with me. I think you don’t mind?” “No, Master.” Dally had answered this question probably a fifty times that day already, but Lyle’s searching look drifted over him again. Maybe he needed more grovelling? Wasn’t Dally a spy, now? “You’ve been good to me,” he tried. “I hope I do right by you.” Lyle bit his lip. “I think you will.” Dally couldn’t even force a smile, just stood there blinking too fast. Lyle eventually turned away, leaving Dally frozen behind him. At least Red was right - Dally was safer when Lyle was sober. When Dally finally left, there was screaming echoing through the servants corridors. Faint, raw screams, like the throat was already worn out. Dally slowed down, listening to them get louder as he crept back to the thralls quarters. The sound peaked as Hannock let him back in, but Dally still couldn’t see who it was. At the far end of the dorm was a blank wood door, that Dally hadn’t been through yet. The screaming came from behind it, along with the faint clink of chain. In the dorm the others were mostly lying flat on bunks, blank faced. A couple were determinedly playing serbat in the corner, muttering their guesses through grit teeth. There was one empty bunk. Dally, quiet, leant up on the side of Red’s bunk. “Is that Sansi?” He asked. “What’d he do?” “Sansi,” she said. She rolled to face him better, but then wouldn’t actually look at him. “Yeah. Mistress, she said he was staring.” She didn’t say what they all thought: she wished he would stop screaming. Dally ran a hand back through his hair. He’d gone cold, and wasn’t sure where to look. Gita had figured out a way to punish him after all. At least she hadn’t figured out yet which thralls were his friends. That would be next. It was black outside the windows when the creams faded to a rasping sob. A while after that the gate squealed, and a ward let Sansi fall through. Whoever did the work had ugly writing - swollen red lines swarmed over his chest, criss-crossed like graffiti on an alley wall. The burns were still at the ‘okay looking’ stage. The puffy, split flesh wasn’t dying yet. Only a human could come up with this, Dally always thought. Who else could take a rune meant to protect against demons, and write it on the demon? Seeing the door open, Dally had jumped up like a dumb idiot, and he hovered there with his hands up; all ready to help. That was pointless. One of the females had got there first. She got a careful hold of Sansi’s slack arm, and started dragging him over to his bunk. When she had got him in he curled up, turning into a shivering hulk under the blanket. Sansi stayed like that until all the others were asleep. Dally didn’t fall asleep. In the grey, freezing dawn he slunk up to the gate and draped his arms through. “Mistress asked for me,” he told Hannock. “You know how it is.” “Lucky boy,” Hannock muttered, annoyed, but he let him pass. Gita was awake too. Wide awake, and poised delicate on a chaise longue. An crystal ash tray on her side table had five butts in it, and she was picking at a dish of candied cherries. Waiting for him. The tropical, florid heat in her rooms was stronger than ever. Seeing him she smiled. “You can’t have much to report, yet.” “He looked at you wrong? Mistress?” Dally asked. “Don’t be like that,” Gita said, “It was only because you put me in a bad mood. And you’re doing it again now. It was only a warning.” “I’m warned,” he said, hurried, “I’ve been doing what you wanted.” “Good.” “Don’t take it out on them.” She laughed, a high and fake sound. “You’re telling me what to do?” Dally twitched. He must have looked how he felt, because she smiled, letting out a stream of smoke through her nose. “Oh, don’t look so sore. Give me what you have.” Fine. Dally glanced at the ceiling to take a deep breath, watching Gita’s silk hangings drift in the hazy air. Gita could do what she wanted. With Sansi, Red, anyone. That was her right. When he started talking the edge had gone out of his voice. “Ansel thinks the governor can get re-elected if he keeps Farham and Tol.” Ansel was Lyle’s Vice Governor. At least, Dally thought so. No one told him these things. Farham and Tol sounded like counties, from what he’d heard. “Farham has a construction problem: there’s a uh, a union? Of steelworkers and chimer-men. They won’t go to work. They don’t like that most of the labour building the Dome went to Anvil Corporation. And the Farham people they don’t like all the uh, the ‘damned thralls’ being bussed in.” If he was hoping Gita would explain what a union was, that hope was gone now. She hummed, and ate another cherry. “Boss-“ Dally sighed through his nose. “Mistress, you know that your man bought me off of Anvil. The thing is, I wasn’t for sale. Anvil must want something from him, and it’s probably those Farham contracts. The eastern rail link needs done, sure, but Anvil can’t move thralls that far.” Gita’s chewing slowed, as she considered him. Eventually she frowned, covered her lips as she swallowed. “He’s a daft man,” she said, “isn’t he?” “He... got what he wanted.” “They always do.” She pouted faintly as she tapped her ash into the crystal tray. “Go on, there’s more, isn’t there?” Spelling it all out took another hour, maybe, with all the questions she was asking. Most of Dally’s answers were ‘I don’t know, mistress.” He didn’t know the places he was talking about, and a couple times she had to stop to correct him on a name, or check something he was saying. When she finally let him go she was pleased, though; lounging like a well-fed cat. Dally slunk out with a hollow feel in his gut, and his shirt unbuttoned. In the corridor it was so ice cold that his breath steamed. A maid closed the door behind him, with a look on her face like she’d just seen a rat. Red didn’t smoke, it turned out. Didn’t even know how.
Dally gave her one to try, and while she was choking it down he went to the night ward’s desk carrying the bundle under his arm. It was past four. The man was nursing a tin mug of rum, his hat tipped down over his eyes. Dally smiled at him. “Got a light, boss?” The ward’s eyes went instantly to the bundle. A spark of pure longing flickered, then suspicion. Nessom County had produced all the tobacco for the whole country, and a year ago the Briari had razed it. This poor bastard was looking at more cigarettes than he’d seen in months. “Where’d you come by that?” the ward asked. “Gift from the master.” Dally saw the wheels turning, while the ward tried to decide if he could confiscate them without Lyle finding out. Eventually the man opened his jacket instead, taking a matchbook from the inside pocket. “I’ll have one too, then.” Dally smiled around the unlit cigarette, holding it with his lips while he opened a roll. Careful, he handed one to the ward. Then he set three more down on the desk. One by one, in a neat row. “I’m not much of a smoker,” Dally confessed. “Well, you’re welcome to donate the whole lot, then.” When Dally only hugged the bundle tighter, the ward chuckled. “Red told me you’re a good one,” he said, “that you’re not any trouble.” “She’s right, boss.” The match flickered alight, and Dally was surprised when the ward actually stood, holding the flame out to him. When both of their cigarettes were lit, the ward leaned back, sighing smoke. “Then why don’t you ask what you’re looking to ask?” This place got more familiar all the time. “Mistress Gita, she’s not so happy about me being here.” The ward snorted. “That’s not what I heard.” Dally remembered his mussed hair, and the click of her bedchamber lock behind him. “...Right.” He glanced away, let out a slow stream of smoke through his nose. “I uh. I don’t kiss and tell, but that was not such a great time for me.” “Really?” “Mm. So, I just want to know some things about her. You know, what she’s like?” He smiled, careful not to bare his teeth. “So I can stay out of trouble.” The ward reached, scooped up the cigarettes on the desk. “What kinds of things?” Things went pretty good from there, Dally thought. The ward’s name was Hannock, and he had been working in this house going on ten years. By the time he was done, he was halfway through a second smoke. He had a lot to say. Gita was a complicated lady, turned out. She had been married to Lyle almost twenty years, which made her about sixteen when they were betrothed. The ward didn’t say so, but Dally heard in his voice that the couple hated each other. They had had two kids during that long marriage. The older boy, Mariel, died in the Siege of Suret leading a thrall company. This changed Gita - ‘got her blood up’, as Hannock put it. She hated the war, and she wanted nothing to do with it. The governor, on the other hand, was all about vengeance for Mariel. “You should hear them go at it,” Hannock said. “Don’t talk about the war in this house.” Their only other child was Dascha, a boy of thirteen. From the tone of Hannock’s voice, the kid was a little shit. “Boss said she’s an orphan, though?” Dally asked. “What, is it so rare her parents are dead?” Hannock snorted; stupid thrall. “Her house is dead, boy.” Rum sloshed into the bottom of his cup, as he poured again. “Any Moreau worth anything was at Iles when it was razed. The Briars took her parents, and all the cousins and such. I’d say their bones are chipped into lance-heads by now. They emptied the treasury, too. She has one brother still alive, but he only made it through because he was locked up in a Nirite monastery. Not an ounce of magic in his whole body.” “I get it,” Dally said. “Do you, now?” “Mistress only her boy now,” he said, “it must be hard for her.” Hannock stumped out the cigarette, a little slower than before. He was watching Dally from under the peak of his hat, considering. “I don’t know that I like you devils like this. All… curious.” Dally blinked. “I would never hurt a kid, boss.” “Not that kid,” Hannock said, “not if you want to stay pretty.” But he must not have been too worried, since he went straight back to the rum. In the end Dally set one last cigarette on the edge of his desk, and saw a flicker of approval from under the peak of Hannock’s hat. “I’ll let you know, then,” the ward said, “if I think of something else.” “I’d sure appreciate it, boss.” They didn’t shake hands - there was no way was Dally going to try touching him. Hannock smiled at him, though, carefully sliding the cigarette into his breast pocket. When Dally got back, he leaned on his new bunk to talk to Red. She was almost asleep, watching him through her eyelashes. Wyrlight through the window bars drew lines of shadow across her face. A half-cigarette was carefully tucked up under the edge of her matt, with the end rolled to keep the tobacco in. “You didn’t like it?” Dally asked. “Not really,” she admitted. “They taste like how the house smells.” “Great.” The case was still under his arm, and he raised it up onto her bunk, carefully set it by her feet. When she stared back he finally grinned. “Would you hold onto them for me? I think I could like smoking.” The next day came with a pounding headache, eyelids sealed shut with gunk.
“Nf,” he croaked, remembering. Red was shoving at his shoulder, rolling his head side-to-side. Dally realised, bleary, that she’d been there poking him for a long while. “Time to go, champ,” she said. “Okay? Harper?” Dally got up. He splashed icy water on his his face from a trough in the wall and staggered around until he found his pants. Red wordlessly shoved a fresh shirt at him. In ten minutes they both stood in a corridor by a door, squinting into grey morning light. Their breath fogged the air and he thought he could feel the cold from the marble tile through the soles of his boots. They were guarding a door, a massive, curlicued slab of iron. When no-one was passing he turned to look at it, trying to figure out the swirls and arcs in the metal. No good. Near the handle, a membrane lock pulsed wetly, the surface gleaming with faint frost. Lyle probably wasn’t in there, Red said - that was the office. Mostly he wasn’t in there. This was a good spot. She had to trade for this shift, so she could look out for Dally. How was it being so drunk? “I’m not drunk,” Dally said, “I’m hung-over.” “Are you sure? You look drunk.” They were only stood there a few minutes when they heard a fast clip of heels, and a woman burst out of a side door. Seeing the two thralls she stopped, and shrugged a mink stole back up around her shoulders. She was flushed and glaring, with dark hair slipping from under a pearled net. As she stalked towards Dally she carefully swept the stray hair back, her lips pressing in a hard line. Her earring flashed blue and green - Lyle’s river-serpent. “Mistress Gita,” Dally guessed. He stared past her at the wall. It didn’t help - Gita stopped in front of him. “Mistress? Did he tell you to say that?“ “I- yes, mistress.” It sounded like Dally was meant to apologise for something, but he wasn’t sure what. He just stood there instead, awkwardly steadying the hilt of his saber with one hand. A long, long moment passed, while she looked him up and down. “This makes perfect sense now,” she said, eventually. The acid note of disgust wasn’t hidden too well by her accent. “What was your name? Darry?" “Dally Harper.” She made a faint noise and turned, beckoning as she started away. “Come along, Dally.” Red was watching him with wide eyes, but when Dally glanced at her she just shrugged; ‘she’s the boss’. Gita stopped at the door, and glared at him until he figured out he was meant to open it for her. In the next hall she led him away at a fast clip. He could still feel her eyes on him, measuring. “This is how he spends Jona’s inheritance,” she said, “on toys.” Dally’s mouth twitched, before he got back to blank. “Something you need, mistress?” “Yes.” But she didn’t say anything else, not until they’d gone through a side door and under a veil of silk. It could have been a different house, past that veil. Choking incense wrapped around him, spiked with the smell of fresh sage. After one more silk hanging it was tropical warm, and he was treading on a floor softened by cushions and furs. Amber wormlight took the place of sun - there were no windows. The hair rose on the back of his neck, reacting to a new, scary idea. Dally should not be here; these were Gita’s chambers. A shadow behind one last curtain had the shape of a four-poster bed. Gita moved away from it, to stare into a dresser mirror. With rage-fueled efficiency she snapped open a silver case, took a cigarette from inside and lit it. Smoke coiled slow between them, turning the incense smell dirty. “I have a job for you,” she said. “It’s very important.” Here it came. “Alright,” Dally said, faint. “My husband is a busy man, and he’s become very… private,” she said. “You’ll look after him for me, and report what you hear. So that I can better manage the house.” Relief hit him so fast he almost laughed. “You want me to spy on him?” “Monitor him.” Her eyes narrowed, like she couldn’t tell if she was being mocked. “I’m his wife. It’s not right, there being secrets between us.” “Monitor.” “Yes. For the good of the house.” Maybe it was Gita’s smoke, or her calling him a toy, but the world around Dally seemed to be coming into focus. Everything since the fight with Greenlees had felt like a fever-dream, like something not-quite-real. He kept thinking he would wake up tomorrow back in a corporate bunk. Now suddenly he got it; This place wasn’t different, under the layers of gold lacquer. It was just another Anvil Capital, with a core of graft and bullshit. He understood this. Dally’s fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh as he listened; not a good sign. He stared past Gita at the glittering room, taking it in. Maybe Red was right; maybe he was still drunk. Gita sighed smoke. “There will be opportunities to collect information when he takes you into the office. You’ll only have to listen, and try to remember the exact words. Of course, you’ll tell no one. Just come to me in the small hours once or twice a week-” “Why should I?” Dally asked. Shit— “I mean, what do I get out of it?” Gita blinked at him. “Did you say something?” His head shook a little, but his mouth was already running. “I said ‘what do I get out of it’.” “What?” Dally waited, while she slowly absorbed that, while his heart started hammering. She was straightening in her chair, a snake slowly bracing it’s coils. “You get protection,” she said, “from me.” “I don’t need that though.” He forced a smile. She didn’t say anything for a while, filling the silence with smoke. In that quiet Dally could hear his boot heels squeek on the floor as he rocked. Finally she carefully brushed past him, eyes blazing, and went to a dresser in the corner. While Dally tried not to move she rummaged through the drawers, sifting through half-full perfume bottles, letters, bits of silk. Eventually she found an old pen in the back, a carved ivory tube bound with tarnished silver. Ink crusted the nib, turned black from years of drying. It was his imagination, of course, but Dally instantly smelled burning hair. “Come here,” she said. “Roll up your sleeve.” There was a snick of metal as she uncapped the nib. The sound made Dally’s teeth itch, turned his fake smile even more brittle. “Mistress, you don’t want to do that.” “Come here.” Somehow he didn’t take a step, just swayed in place. “I- He’ll see the burn on me.” Gita paused. “Yeah,” Dally said, and swallowed the crackle in his voice. “Yeah, he’ll see it, and ask me, and I’ll tell him. You know? ‘Your wife tried to get me monitoring, and I said no thanks. Actually, maybe I should go tell him right now?” Once, on a job, Dally had watched a fresh-built scaffold collapse as the struts buckled. All sixteen stories, banging right into each other like a deck of cards, letting off claps of dust. Bang bang bang. Gita looked like how Dally had felt, watching that. Her cheeks were going slowly red. Ash fell from her forgotten cigarette. She glanced at it, confused, then took a long, deliberate pull. Eventually she breathed out. “You belong to me,” she said. “It’s his name on my contract. Maybe I’m loyal?” Gita laughed, a little too high and sharp. When she fell silent Dally was still just staring at her. ‘I- well.” she said. “Alright.” “Alright...?” “What is it you want?” Dally grinned, panicking. What the hell did he want? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I want you to keep him off of me when he’s drunk,” he tried. “And… and in three months I want to be sold on out of here.” “Keep him away?” Her laugh had a note of hysteria. “And how exactly should I make him sell you?” “I don’t know. You’re a smart lady, you’ll figure it out.” “He doesn’t sell thralls,” she said. “It’s impossible. Even if he did, three months is hardly any information at all for me.” “That’s my demand.” Dally heard Yaral say that once, demand, and it worked the same now. Gita stared, more quiet. “I tell you, it’s not possible.” “Okay,” Dally said. “In that case I should, just, uh-” He glanced around the room, and turned to stroll back towards the door. A yank on his arm stopped him - Gita had lunged, catching his sleeve. “One year,” she said, “one year, and that’s the best I can do.” He looked down at the hand, considering. Her fingers were very tight. “Three months,” he said. “…Nine months.” “Three? Months?” “You-“ Gita licked her lips and swallowed whatever she was about to say. “Six. Six months and you’ll have a case of cigarettes. Alright? I’ll keep Tannis away as much as I can, but there are limits to what I can do for you.” Six months? That was a whole lot shorter than forever. Dally’s throat ached - he wasn’t actually breathing, from standing so close to her. The pen was still tight in her other hand, an outline under her gloved fingers. He only stared for another second, before slowly nodding. “Okay,” he said, and coughed. “Yeah. I want the cigarettes up front, though.” “Of course you do.” She’d got her bearings enough to glare at him, although the fading blush kind of ruined it. “Come to the kitchens at third bell. And-“ She reached for his head, fast enough that Dally couldn’t flinch away in time. She careful tousled his hair and leant back to examine him again, before letting him go. “I want the maids to think we’re sleeping together,” she said, acid, “you should act... satisfied.” Then she was gone, thrashing a silk screen out of the way. When the sound of her heels had faded Dally forced a breath, staring up at the filigreed ceiling. His chest hurt, and his throat, like his heart was trying to climb up his neck and strangle him. By the time he got back to the office door, he was feeling a lot better, though. Grinning, actually, like an idiot. Red, seeing him, gave a sidelong look at his mussed hair. “You okay?” “Okay,” he said. ”Yeah. Hey, do you smoke?” Red left him in what she called a sitting room. Sure you could sit in it - a few plush lounges clustered in the center. Mostly, though, it was empty space. Grey light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, mapping swirls of dust in the air.
Dally stood still until his leg started bouncing. It could have been a couple of minutes, or an hour. The uniform lay stiff on his shoulders, snapping taut whenever he tried moving. It was silent. His own breathing felt loud, and when he shifted, the creak of his boots echoed. How big was this house? Weren’t there people? Dally spared a glance for the door, then opened the nearest cabinet and started rifling through it. It was packed to the teeth with glittery objects. He knocked silver and glassware aside, until his fingers brushed something searing hot. Dally yelped, flinched back. When he looked, the burning object was a small figure of a woman, shoved way at the back. Aurum thrummed in the core of the nude statue, burning so hot that the points of the tiny breasts glowed. It was a casual fortune in magic. Ceramic clinked on tile behind him, and Dally spun to see a homunculus in the door. It looked at him, bland, before crossing the room to the hearth. Glowing coals spilled from between it’s fingers, until it shoved them deep under the unlit pile of logs. Smoke curled up from tinder, twisted in the grate. Dally heard sometimes there was a soul in the homunculus, a dead man trapped in there to move the clay. “Can you talk?” he asked. “Is someone coming?” The clayman turned towards him, slow. After a long time it forced it’s stiff shoulders up in a shrug. “Okay,” Dally said, “thanks.” It left. The fire swelled, pouring uncomfortable heat into the room. Outside in the echoing hall, there was a clatter like something being knocked over. Drunk laughter followed, getting louder and closer. Dally already knew Lyle’s voice, he realised. The other two turned out to be the Lyric execs. At least, they looked corporate. All three men were smiling, but the two execs were faking. Lyle was out of his mind - beaming, with his arm around the younger one’s shoulders. Dally guessed the poor bastard was the lower ranking one, Butler, because he doubted Lyle would drape himself all over Vice President Mayworth. Lyle steered them by force towards the lounges. Mayworth lagged behind, leaning on the back of a chair instead of sitting properly. “Maybe we’ve taken enough of your time,” he said. “No,” Lyle said, “after I made you wait? You’ll have another drink I hope. I have something to show-” he seemed to see Dally for the first time. “There! Come here, come-” He was pointing at a spot on the floor in front of them, and Dally made himself walk there. When he stopped he was right in front of them, rocking on his heels in the stiff new clothes. The two Lyric men considered him, while Lyle waited expectantly. “You’ll need to tell us,” Mayworth said.“I’m not much for thralls.” Lyle’s mouth twisted. “It’s the new champion of Wesend, since last night.” “Is it.” “Come here Dally.” When Dally took an uncertain step closer, Lyle tugged him in by the sleeve. ‘You see?” he told the execs, “Anvil says they don’t sell display. You need to know how to talk to these people. Doesn’t he look good?” “Very human,” Butler said, dutiful. He looked like Lyle’s arm was getting heavy. “Did you still want the contract to start in August?” “We said six months?” And then they were talking business, with Dally just standing there, painfully close. It seemed like Lyric wanted to move aramite and war cars through the west counties to the front. They had a federal supply contract. Lyle would receive campaign donations and in exchange he’d organise to finish the abandoned west rail-link to Naibor. At least, that was what the execs wanted. Lyle wanted more drinks. It was hard to follow, the way he was rambling. While Dally struggled to keep still, the conversation skid over a cliff, and suddenly they were arguing over how many days exactly were in six months. Without warning, Lyle looked up at Dally, and pat the edge of the lounge. “Sit.” He was serious. The two other men saw at the same time, and he felt the insult choke the air. Dally looked at them, then at the floor until Lyle pat the lounge again. As Dally sat the older man abruptly stood. Mayworth’s face was calm, but he shook his sleeves straight a little too hard. “I think we’ve gone as far as we can, for tonight.” A homunculus appeared from the shadows with his coat. “We’ll draft the timeline and have it sent over. And a contract.” Butler glanced sideways at Dally sitting next to him. He was struggling out from under Lyle’s arm. “It was a pleasure,” he said, “a real pleasure, as always.” They were gone in seconds, shaking off Lyle’s half-hearted protest. As soon as the door shut, he edged towards Dally, looking him up and down. He was flushed, eyes glittering wet. “You like the uniform, don’t you?” “Sure, boss.” “Master.” Lyle reached with one sweaty hand, clutched the lapel of Dally’s new jacket. He dragged him closer, into a dank fog of whisky breath. His grin suddenly took up all of Dally’s “You’re so shy.” His fingers pried open the top of the uniform shirt. “I just want to see.” Dally waited, listless, while Lyle struggled with his jacket, then with his shirt. When both were gone, he shivered, until the governor’s hand slid down the front of his body. It froze him. The touch crawled over his chest, then faded out of sensation as it paused on the lump of scar tissue. By now Lyle was leaning into him, breath stirring the hair on Dally’s neck. “I can grow it back,” he whispered, “wouldn’t that be good?” Dally’s head was full of white noise, like a train rattling down an endless tunnel. “Can I get you another drink?” The groping hands didn’t pause. “Yes, yes.” Even after agreeing, Lyle whined when Dally pulled away, like it surprised him. Dally ignored it, walking a little too fast to a table in the corner. There were glasses there, and an ice-box, and he aimlessly moved things around for a second. The white noise wasn’t clearing up, which made it hard to concentrate. He picked up a bottle of dark glass, and felt liquor slosh around at the bottom. Lyle was looking at him. “It’s empty,” Dally said. “I’ll go to the kitchen.” A flash of confusion crossed Lyle’s flushed face. “Mm.” Whatever that meant, Dally was gone. In the corridor he started shivering again, instantly and violently. Was it this cold before? He uncapped the bottle still in his hand, and took a too-long gulp of the mystery stuff. Then he coughed, ended up spitting a jet of liquor on the tile. His nostrils burned as he started walking. Was there even a kitchen? Big mansions had kitchens, right? He turned down a corridor at random, moving sticky-slow. Drinking slower, too, because he wanted to keep it down. Maybe Lyle would pass out if Dally took long enough to come back. Or, maybe he’d be waiting with a rune pen. That was a bad thought, but it didn’t hurry Dally up any. He thumped his boot against the plinth of a bust, and trailed his fingers over a painting as he passed. Every room was the same silk and jade and wood, with glints of gold in the dark. It made it feel like going in circles. Dally would have thought he was dreaming, except he was never in a house like this before. A homunculus silently scrubbed the floor in a corridor, and didn’t look up when he passed. In another drawing room he stopped, seeing a cabinet in the corner. Before he even opened the door, though, there was a voice behind him. "The hell?” A silhouette in the door bristled with spines. It was the thrall from the gate; ‘Lane’, Red had called him. “One day here,” Lane said, “and you’re walking around like that. Where’s your shirt” Dally watched him for a long second, waiting to get angry. Instead, the cold feeling was turning nauseous in his gut. He took another pull from the bottle, went back to rummaging the cabinet. There were bottles in there. “What,” Lane said, “are you drunk?" "I'm working on it.” A hand landed on his shoulder, spun him around. Dally found himself staring at two rows of needle teeth, the stranger’s face rippling and stretching. Maybe Dally was drunk, already - he laughed before he could stop himself. When the laugh faded he didn’t smile, just looked up and down. Lane was slightly shorter, slightly older. “I killed a guy yesterday,” Dally said. “I’m a killer.” The hands fell off of him, as Lane took a step back. Dally went back to the cabinet and snatched the nearest bottle. When he’d taken a gulp, he paused for a long time, waiting for this whole thing to make sense. “I, uh. The boss has my shirt.” Why was he explaining? Dally shook himself, closed the cabinet with a soft click. “I gotta... I gotta go back, now. We can fight tomorrow." Lane let him pass. The spines in his hair had flattened, and he was watching Dally in a different way, unreadable. Dally brushed past him without looking, made for the door. “Wait,” Lane said. Then, as Dally didn’t pause; “I said wait.” Dally stopped long enough for Lane pushed in front of him. Dally swayed, uneasy, watching the strange look cross his face again. “Give me that,” Lane said. Dally glanced down at the bottle in his hand, confused, and back up. “Yes, that,” Lane said. “Give it to me.” For some reason Dally did hold it out, slowly, and hesitated until Lane snatched it from his hand. “Okay,” Lane said, tipped his head. “Go on to bed now. I’ll handle this.” When Dally just looked at him, he pointed at a servants exit. “Go on.” “…Are you sure?” ”Just go.” The jolt of relief was painful, laced with booze and cold. Dally let out a harsh breath, ran a hand back through his hair. He still wasn’t sure what Lane was offering. To take his place? Could he do that? “Thank you,” Dally said, instead of asking. “Don’t you talk to me again.” -- Dally had finally stopped rocking by the time he found the thrall quarters. He had the numbing heat of booze instead, and the inside of his head was empty. It made it hard to understand where he was, which looked like no thrall house he’d ever been in. It was clean, for starters, smelling faintly of sweat and block feed. The plank floors were lathed flat and polished. There were even windows, blurred and covered with wrought iron bars; they were above ground. Outside was a thin gap between buildings, the stone blue in the moonlight. It was also the smallest barrack he’d ever seen. The bunk rows went back only to twenty or so, and they were only two high. The wooden posts were carved with roses, and scoured from years of clawing. There was even some room between the rows, so your arms could fall out of bed without hitting the next thrall in the face. It was all alien, like Lyle himself. At least nothing had gilt on it. Only half the bunks were taken - there must be a night shift. Red was awake, humming loud and tuneless. Seeing Dally she jumped down from her bunk, squinted at his face. “Okay, Harper?” Dally faked a smile for her. “Okay.” “Good.” She looked relieved. “Lane didn’t find you.” “Oh he found me alright.” Dally muttered, then when Red looked sideways at him; “We didn’t fight.” She stared a bit longer, waiting. When Dally didn’t say anything more she pointed to the bunk under hers. “This one’s empty.” A female in the back row cackled. Another whistled part of a song; An empty bed stays cold all night. “You could both fit in the top if she lies underneath,” someone drawled. Red snarled at the room in general, and kicked the nearest bunk. The guy in it yelped, confused. Dally had already flopped down, and the bullshit became background noise behind his closed eyes. That was, until someone gently prod his shoulder. He cracked an eyelid, to find the one Red had kicked at staring at him with wide blue eyes. He was even younger than Red, with a snub nose crooked from breaking and healing. “Hey,” the thrall asked, “you know any songs?” Red hissed. “Leave him alone, he’s tired.” “S’okay. Fine.” Dally rubbed his eyes, willing his body to fall through the bed. “Just pay attention, you’re only getting them once.” By the time they got through all the songs he really was tired. He sang without lifting his head, in the dry, off-key rasp that was his best singing voice. They were just work songs, and some ones that had come back from the front. The sad ones he kept to himself - he didn’t feel like sobbing tonight. The Wesend thralls knew most of them already, and whenever they knew one someone would yell ‘next’. Some were new to them, though, and then Dally had to pour out out the whole damn thing, stumbling through the words. When they had heard everything he let them sing on on their own, listening to his songs come back. The words were already mutated - no one here had one of those perfect memories. Some voices were good, though, and now his throat ached in that good way from listening. Though he couldn’t see her, above him Red was just mumbling the words or humming. Her hand on the edge of the bunk scratched at the frame. When she lapsed into silence, Dally reached, gently poked the bottom of her bed. “Hey,” he swallowed - even the whisper was hoarse. “is Lane jealous? Of me?” “No!” Red whispered. “I mean, no.” Her voice wavered, and even in the dark Dally thought he heard her blushing. She was probably the worst liar he had ever heard. “No,” she muttered, eventually. “It’s not simple like that. At the start Lane didn’t like the master, but then he got to liking him? And now he’s not the favourite any more, so he gets all cut up-” She was actually angry - her foot rattled the bunk frame. “It’s embarrassing.” Dally was quiet for a while. Finally he rolled over, watching silhouettes move in the dark. They took the elevator to the lobby, a gilded box with a real human operator. As the boy cranked the door cage shut Dally snuck a glance at his new owner. Worry lines crowding between Lyle’s eyebrows made him look about fifty, but his mouth had a babyish pout. The house earring didn’t match that mouth; up close the blue and green enamel turned out to be a snarling dragon over water. The next time Dally glanced, the governor was staring right back at him. Dally almost flinched, fixed his eyes on the floor instead.
It was a relief to get out into the street, and walk straight into a blast of rain. Dally trailed along far back as he could, and when he thought the boss wasn’t looking tipped his head back to catch some water in his mouth. The cold helped, knocking some sense back into him. Lyle had the biggest canticar Dally had ever seen. Crouched at the side of the road it took up two full spaces, even with all it’s feelers and legs folded in. Under a sheen of water its shell glowed blue and green, the same colours on the boss’s earring. Even the door handles on the sides of it’s ribcage were gilded, and embossed with fleur de lis. That was really something - bespoke chimery. As they got closer the car blinked up at them, with ink-blue eyes the size of trash can lids. It shuddered once and sprung the doors open. Lyle clambered in, huffing, and sprawled out on one of the plush benches. Dally peered around the car’s bulk, hesitant. On a fancy one like this he was expecting rungs on the carapace, where a servant could hang on. There was nothing, though, except the narrow door to the driver’s cabin. On each of the car’s flanks there was one narrow platform, but both were taken already by matching homunculi. Their blank clay faces turned to look back as he stared. Rain had turned them sticky, softened their edges. A soft sigh came from inside the car. “In here,” Lyle said, patted his thigh. “Come on.” In there? Dally shook water off as much as he could, then hunched uncomfortably to clamber inside. The car sucked in it’s breath, sealing him in to a swampy heat. Lyle’s eyes followed Dally as he hesitated, then perched himself on the edge of the opposite seat. Maybe this was okay? It must have been; after a second, Lyle still hadn’t told him to get off and sit on the floor. Still, Dally didn’t want to touch more of the leather. Or anything else. He crossed his arms across his still-bare chest, hunching over his knees. The inside of the car glittered worse than the office, and everything he looked at had a weird, sparkling intensity. The gold frames on the windows made the wet street outside look like a painting. The car’s ribs were carved in patterns where they crossed the ceiling, flexing with each gasping breath. The floor bucked, as the car found it’s feet. While its many legs thrummed into action under them, Lyle rubbed at a smile on his mouth. “I’ve over-indulged this time, haven’t I?” Dally glanced around, but there was no human to offer an opinion. To be safe he said nothing. “Gita will be furious,” Lyle went on. “That’s your mistress, Gita. Lucky she’s an orphan, now, eh? No real point worrying what she thinks. It’s bizarre, how much you look like a man.” A long pause, where Lyle just looked at him, expectant. Dally coughed. “Thanks, boss.” “You don’t call me boss. You call me master.” “Thank you, master.” “You’re welcome. Pour me a Fearne, the bottle’s just there.” Master. Dally hitched up the cabinet door Lyle was pointing at, hesitated at a row of bottles inside. There were a lot of them, clinking softly at the thunder of the car’s legs. Welp. Fearne was brandy, he thought, but there were a couple of brandy-looking ones. That left him staring dumbly at the labels, trying to remember what the Fearne County flag looked like. Eventually Lyle sighed. “The one on the left. Of course you can’t read, can you?” Dally took the bottle, not looking up. The back of his neck was heating up. “No, b- Master.” “I suppose it’s hard to teach a thrall.” Lyle licked his lips. “What can you do?” “Brick work,” he said, “some welding, pour concrete. Fight.’’ The glass was half full now. It’s smell filled the cabin, warm and biting at the same time. “This enough?” “It’s a lot, actually.” But Lyle seemed pleased as he took it, and smiled behind the rim of the glass as he leaned back. Like Dally’s dumb way of pouring liquor was cute. “Get yourself one,” he said, suddenly. “Why not? You earned it last night.” Dally’s fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle, half way through putting it back. He forced a smile, took another glass from the cabinet. Because it was cute he made it bigger than Lyle’s - screw it. After the first gulp his eyes watered, and he choked back a cough. Sugar and smoke seemed to bubble behind his eyeballs. Lyle beamed. “It’s good stuff, do you like it?” “Yeah,” Dally said, “yes.” He tipped it back as fast as possible. The warm buzz helped - Dally could stare out the window, mostly ignore the eyes on him. Things got better when Lyle took a large file from a locker overhead. Soon he was reading and scribbling in it, distracted. A lot of times he looked up, though, watching Dally across the cabin. Sometimes he asked for another drink, mostly he just chewed on the end of his pencil, letting his eyes crawl all over. An hour later, they were further than Dally had ever been from Ulster Proper. The day refused to break properly - just got darker and hazier under the storm, as major buildings were replaced by warehouse and factories. Soon they rubbed up against the river, and the car bounded north, towards the bridge. The dim made Eyvald Bridge into a black iron skeleton braced against the clouds. There was muddy grass underneath as well as the river, but the field was almost full - heaped with city trash. The mounds of scrap cratered around small fires, and thrall silhouettes passed in and out of the light. Most shapes hunched like they were old, or branched with defect limbs. ‘Stray camp’ the wards called it. In front of that dark mass of rubble the local county had thrown a twenty-foot fence topped with razor wire. Dally never knew there was a fence - when the wards talked about the camp it was always like the thralls in there were roaming around raping women, stealing babies from cradles. As they passed a female near the wire stopped picking trash and rose to watch the massive car. Her six eyes flashed in the lamp light, before she turned away. Lyle’s weight landing next to him jolted Dally back into the cabin. Then Lyle’s arm snaked around his shoulders, heavy and sweaty under his damp wool coat. Dally stopped himself from moving, but couldn’t help the way his eyes snapped to his face. “Easy,” Lyle said. “Don’t you worry about them.” He was leaning closer, breathing sour whisky. His fingers trailed along the back of Dally’s neck. “I’m going to look after you, your whole life.” -- Homesteads replaced tenement houses outside, which eventually gave way to real woods. Dally stared to see so many trees, their shadows stretching away like clawed hands. The rain had turned to sleet. Inside, things stayed exactly the same; gold, shiny and too hot. Lyle stared over the top of his files, lips moist from one glass of bourbon after another. He’d stopped offering any to Dally after the first, which was good and bad. There was nothing to take the edge off, now, but at least Lyle couldn’t watch him drink like it was a cute trick. Finally the car leapt off the main road, skittered onto a long gravel drive. Behind a screen of pines there was a glimmer of light through crystal windows. This turned out to be a white stone manor, sprawling in the center of a vast lawn. As they pulled up the creepers on the facade writhed, stretching towards them. Honeysuckles and roses opened, their soft tendrils nosing in the rain. It was barely noon - was this place really far enough to be in Wesend? Dally didn’t care. He lurched out of the car, snarling at a homunculus in his path. Wet ice settled on his arms and back, mercifully scouring away the heat of the cab. He was still trapped here, though. His toes curled on the wet gravel, as he rocked uncertainly in place. More claymen gathered armfuls of the governor’s files and bags. Another took the arm of the man himself, lifting him flushed and swaying out of the car. The car curled up a little, brushing the door with it’s feelers. Then it sealed with a wet thunk and skittered off down the drive. More flunkies were waiting at the front of the house. At the back were two thralls, blank—faced in and uniformed. Their braid-trimmed navy coats were slowly going black in the rain. In front of them a secretary-type huddled under a huge umbrella. Seeing Lyle she smoothed her blonde curls back into place, clicked down the last few stairs. Her powder was cracking around her worry lines. “Governor,” she started, “Lyric corporate are here. Kellen Mayworth, and the other is Butler, I think he’s the head of Accounts? They say you asked for a meeting-” “I’m busy.” Lyle was drifting to where Dally had paused, and waved a hand over his shoulder. She hesitated, fingers twisting on the umbrella handle. “They’ve been waiting three hours.” Lyle made a sound in his throat like he was going to spit on the drive. Instead he lunged towards Dally, gripped him by both shoulders. While Dally stood, rigid, Lyle stared up into his face. He blinked against the rain, mournful. “I’ll be back soon.” He gave Dally a little shake, that was probably meant to be reassuring. The motion shook Lyle more than Dally, though, so the governor had to lean on him to catch his balance. When he was steady again he turned to the thralls at the door. “You two take him along to quarters,” he said, “and find him a uniform. A new one, mind you. Take good care of him.” The female tipped her head. “Yes master.” Lyle thumped Dally on the back before swerving away towards the house. As soon as he was gone Dally let out a breath, running a hand back through his hair. As the two thralls lead him to a side door the male looked him up and down, measuring. Dally tried the same thing, and didn’t like what he saw. The other guy was maybe ten years older, but bulky and tall under the uniform. A row of needle spines down the back of his neck meant he was probably an extra-spiky son of a bitch when he changed form. Even as Dally watched, more barbs pressed up under the skin, making little tents on the back of his neck. Before Dally could ask what the problem was, the spiney one leaned in to talk to the female, baring the edges of sharp teeth. “You take him,” he said. “And keep him the hell away from me.” Dally watched him stalk away, crossed his arms against the cold. “What, is he a Seth Greenlees fan?” “Nah,” the female said. He waited, but nothing else came out. She was frowning, and eventually beckoned him down a narrow service corridor. “You really are that Harper guy, huh?” she said, “I saw your picture on the cover of Cage Report.” “No kidding?” “Everyone says you faked being messed up. Like a trick, to get closer.” Dally scratched at the back of his neck, looking everywhere but her. “I didn’t have to fake it, believe me.” Now it was his turn to go quiet. Finally the female reached over and thumped him hard on the shoulder. “I don’t even like the cage, okay?” She grinned. “Let’s get you some real clothes. And a razor…” The concrete tunnel had no lights, no windows. The female strolled along, chattering loudly into Dally’s silence. Her name was Red, she told him, and this weather was super crappy. The humans weren’t going out, so they didn’t get to do anything but wait around the house. Everyone was pissed off. Probably Dally would be okay, though, being a fighter and all. What was it like in the car? “Expensive,” Dally said. She sounded younger, the more she talked. Maybe not even twenty. He saw now that she had no real scars, just a nick in one black eyebrow. Her skin was darker, like a northerner, so probably she was ‘exotic’ by the standards of this place. If it wasn’t for her defect, she would almost pass for human. Her hair didn’t cover it up enough; a scarlet disc in the center of her forehead. It was blank, except for a faint horizontal crease. An eyelid. In a store room she started rummaging through cabinets, barely looking as she flung things back at him. Pretty soon she’d piled a bundle of cloth in his arms, all dark wool and gold braid. When he let it fall open he saw it was the same as hers, kind of military-looking, but it didn’t have numbers or any kind of company marks. It was just a replica, a monkey suit. The final touch was a fresh-mint saber, in a black enamel scabbard. When Dally buckled it on it thumped awkwardly against his leg. He had never touched a sword in his life. “The hell am I meant to do with this?” “Just wear it, try not to cut anyone.” Red looked comfortable enough in the uniform, though. She sprawled lazy on the bench across from him, watching him dress. While he struggled with the clothes she yawned, sharp-toothed. Her clear inner eyelids narrowed to slits. “You got the cuffs wrong, here-“ She turned the fabric over with her thumbs, careful, and after a second watching her he tried the other himself. For some reason his cheeks were hot. Probably the tie trapping blood in his head. “Seems like a lot of trouble,” he muttered, “dressing me up. He really wants me to stand around the house between fights?” “Fights.” She watched him sidelong, like she was trying to decide if this was a joke. “Ysa, he wants you to stand around permanently. You’re not gonna see the inside of a cage so long as he owns you.” Now his fingers paused on the buttons, while he stared at nothing. “I’m not?” Dally struggled, yanked the cuff straight. “The Gov bought you because he likes the look of you,” she said, hesitant. “He’ll want you to stay like that.” It stopped him, while he thought about it. Dally already knew all that, yeah. He got it. But having her say it out loud was worse, somehow. Red reached to put a hand on his arm, but drew back when Dally looked at her. She frowned. “You’ll be treated better here than some production house, alright? We have it good.” A pause, while she pretended to focus on his tie. “Anyway, he might not do more than look at you. He’s mostly loyal to Mistress Gita when he’s sober-” Dally pulled away to straighten the tie himself. “Thanks for the help. You want to show me where to stand?” “…Sure. Hey, Harper?” He was already turning away. His hands ran down the sides of his jacket to try and shove in his pockets, which was how he found out they were fake. They were just flaps sewn on, like a costume. Yaral was serious about clean. Back in the store-room a ward cut Dally a grey wedge of soap. Then he made him stand there holding it while he squinted at the slowly leaking wounds. By then it was pitch dark in most of the compound. One blue wyrlight lit the room, and it made Seth's blood look black where it coated Dally’s arms and chest. Dally never noticed that before; blood was black in the dark.
Finally the ward declared the gashes would close on their own, and gave Dally more disinfectant powder to throw in them when he was clean. That was good - stitches would mean staying awake longer. The baths were still lukewarm when Dally got there, but he couldn’t make himself get in. No one wanted a red bath. Instead he scooped up buckets of water to tip over his head, and scraped his hair and skin with his fingernails. The soap stung a little, catching in scrapes he didn't know he had. When the water ran mostly clear Dally asked the night ward if this was good enough. “You look like hell,” the man said. Dally just stared back at him, blank. “Fine.” The ward sighed. “Come on, then.” The dorm was singing when they came up outside, but fell awkwardly silent at the rattle of the door. Inside it was pitch black, rows of bunks with limbs spilling lazily out. The night ward steered him through the room by wyrlight, cupping a few glowing worms naked in his palm. Anise glanced up at him with large eyes flashing in the dark. Dally found himself passing their bunk, though, and the ward didn’t stop. Dally opened his mouth to say something, then rubbed his face instead. It made sense a second later, as he was nudged into the lock-stall off to the side of the main room. No one could damage him in here, in case this was one of those nights where thralls acted like thralls. Greenlees had really been something, a hero, and by now every everyone here knew he was dead. Dally almost snarled at the clang of the gate, but that was just instinct. He was too tired to hate the lock-box right now. He was listless as he crawled under the blanket and pressed his back into the corner. Since the box was meant as a kind of punishment there was no bunk, but right now the floor felt oka. Pip started the song again in her high clear voice, quiet but fast. It had one of those soft, lovey choruses where your heart swelled up, but Pip made it harsh somehow, like a whipcrack. Dally didn’t try to join. The music floated in the dark around him, not quite drowning out the hushed gossip. A voice whispered, loudly, that that bitch Dally Harper must be proud of himself. It must be nice to fight like a little bitch and kill Seth Greenlees. Whoever it was said it a couple more times, but amazingly none of the others joined in. Dally had nothing smart to say back, and after a while the voice rasped to bored silence. In the lull he could hear his own breath, too fast. Eventually he squeezed his eyes shut. He lurched out of sleep at the sound of familiar voices, then blinked at his own blindness - it was still the middle of the night. Anise and Rose asked through the dark how he was doing. Their soft voices were right by his head where it rest against the bars. They got out of bed for this? Dally considered the question, taking slow inventory of his body. Then he said he was good, which was true. The smaller scrapes were closing up already, and the holes in his side and thigh had a paper-thin crust of blood and powder. They still hurt like hell, but they’d be small scars. “Are you coming back tomorrow?” Rose asked him. “The boss gave you a lot of soap. Maybe he likes the deal.” “I don’t know,” Dally said. With his eyes shut he slid an arm through the bars, reaching in the dark until his fingertips brushed a warm cheek. Rose took his hand, and held it for a long time. —-- The bath had been pointless - Dally woke up drenched in sweat, tangled in the blanket. The wounds must have broken open while he rolled around on the floor, because thin lines of blood were dried up across his skin. Yaral took one look at him and ordered him back to the baths. And yelled at the wards, too. This time they ‘helped’, scrubbing Dally with the horse-hair brush he hadn’t wanted to use last night. It worked, that was for sure. His hair was still damp and the fresh shirt stuck to his back when a ward came to pick him up. They led him out of the loading docks into the basement, then up the service stairs. Many, many stairs, all lit by caged blue worms. Dally’s bare feet crossed from concrete to tile to carpet, and hackles started to rise on the back of his neck. Like when he was a kid sneaking around places he didn’t belong. The feeling peaked when the ward unlocked a door and led him into the offices. Warmth and light washed over them. Lots of light, so he squinted for a few seconds. There was a glow from real gas lights, a warm orange drenching everything. But, mostly it was the windows. Floor to ceiling, with the gentle blur of crystal. It was mid morning, and he could see across most of the city. Stained brick buildings stretched against a grey sky, shiny with rainwater. A heavy smoke bank hovered over the Heirodrome, where Dally had killed Seth last night. It veiled the arched iron dome in blue, and as he watched a flash of silent lightning lit up the underside. No one was looking at that view. The half dozen humans he could see wore wool suits or sash dresses, poised over wood desks. A secretary crossed their path with an armful of files. She barely glanced up, then froze as she met Dally’s eyes. “He’s alright, miss,” the ward said. “Oh. Oh I’m sure-” The secretary took a hesitant step to go around them, skirting as far away as the corridor would let her. It took Dally backing up against the wall before she would actually pass, though. She clipped around him on high heels, hugging the files to her chest. Yaral met them a second later, waved them over in distraction. He was talking to another man in a suit, something about a meeting with Alter Technical, a merger. Normally Dally would listen, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was still too busy staring around himself like a startled cat. As they walked Yaral put a hand on his shoulder, yanking his attention. “The man coming to see you is Tannis Lyle, he’s Governor of Wesend. You know what a governor is?" It was a kind of elected lordship, Dally figured, because the company staff voted for Governor of Ulster every four years, and it was always members of the mage houses that got in. Probably this governor had power over a large slice of the west counties. That was where Wesend was. "Not really," Dally said. Yaral’s mouth twitched in annoyance. "It just means he's important." The meeting room took up a good portion of the floor, shiny with mirrors and polished cherry wood. Yaral stood Dally in the center of it, on a silk rug that probably cost more than he did. There were little thralls embroidered on it; running around picking fruits off of trees, hunting rabbits and deers. He thought they were deers, anyway - Dally only knew what those looked like from songs. His gut hurt. “Take your shirt off.” Yaral was saying. “You just let him look, hear me? Let him look and don’t say anything. I will not be happy if I have to take you back downstairs. Okay?” Dally peeled the shirt off, crossed and uncrossed his arms. The cold was in his head, but he still shivered once. Even standing there, he wasn’t sure how he was going to act. Being sold was... a dice-roll. He’d lose his friends, and have to learn a new set of rules - that could be painful. Maybe this would be good, though? Right? Some governor mage with a cage hobby would probably be more hands-off than a production boss like Yaral. There’d be less thralls, too, and more money to keep them. Maybe this was okay? “Of course he’s late,” Yaral said, to no one. He thumped down in one of the chairs, idly fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Silence stretched while he sucked it down, slowly filling the air with smoke. He had just crushed out the third cigarette when the door opened. A tall man straightened his suit jacket as he entered, ran a hand back over trim hair. Silver spectacles flashed as he looked around, as bored as a lizard with the shiny room. Dally thought this was the governor, but the next man wore twice as much jewellery. Heavy gold chain gleamed at his throat, and gold edge on the rim of an enamel house earring. His body was heavy, too. Under thinning brown hair his face was soft and pink from the cold outside. Next to the two of them, Yarral looked modest in his suit and cuff links. Dally looked like a thrall. Without a shirt the hair on his arms rose in goosebumps, and the scrapes from last night stood out on pale skin. "Well.” Governor Lyle clapped his hands together, grinning. “This is exciting. He had a very good showing last night. Didn't he?" the question was for his man. Maybe he was an aide. The aide agreed that Dally fought as well as possible against Greenlees, who was a real monster. "Almost a shame he killed him, but that's the game. Isn't that right, Dally?" Dally blinked. "Sure, boss. That was a real shame. ” Shit - he was meant to agree with the ‘it’s a game’ part, wasn’t he? But Lyle was still just smiling at him, indulgent. "Well,” he said, “that's very sporting of you. Thralls can be honourable kinds of creatures when they're raised right." The governor strolled toward him, looking him up and down. A pace away he leaned in close, slowly examining the lines of his face. When he breathed out, Dally felt it faint on his cheek. “This is some breeding,” Lyle said. “He really does look almost human.” That was the cue for Yaral to hard-sell. Something about Dally’s champion grandfather and the many perfect babies fanning out from that, four centuries of totally pure bloodlines. Lyle was barely listening, just continuing the long, long look at Dally’s face. “Open your mouth,” he said. Dally must have hesitated too long, because Yaral’s stare turned hard. So Dallly opened his mouth. Not wide enough - Lyle clasped Dally’s chin with one soft hand, dragging his jaw lower. The mild expression twisted in faint disgust, fascination. “All his teeth are sharp.” “That’s not uncommon,” Yaral said, “but your guests won’t see his teeth.” “And this.” The hand fell from Dally’s jaw, to slide down his chest. Dally tensed as the fingertips ran over the lump of scar, rest there. He couldn’t feel it - the scar was numb - but something about the quirk of Lyle’s mouth made him want to twitch away. Lyle’s thumb ran slow over the ridges. “What is this? A tumour?” Dally decided, suddenly, that he didn’t want to be sold. “That’s where the extra arm was,” he blurted. “Extra arm,” Lyle echoed. “Sure, boss. It was a bad one too, all scaly with a bunch of fingers. No one would want me if they hadn’t took that off-” “Dally.” Yaral was smiling, but there was ice under his voice. “He can be a little… talkative,” he explained to the governor, “but he can keep his mouth shut when he’s told. Right?” Dally breathed in, but froze as Yaral’s smile widened. Yaral turned back to the governor. “These minor defects are easy to deal with, if you use professionals. Do it young and the thrall grows up totally normal.” Lyle was barely listening, his palm still sliding over the thick sheet of scar. Dally’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t move. “Do you miss it?” Lyle asked. The direct question lingered in the air. Finally Dally had to answer, glancing at Yaral. “Can’t miss what you can’t remember,” he tried. “Huh.” Lyle’s hand fell away. Silence stretched, as he stood back, rubbing at his mouth. Finally he made a faint noise in the back of his throat, like this was all painful. “I’ll take him.” Before he finished the sentence the aide had stepped forward, letting the ledger fall on the table with a thump. He leafed through it, talking in dry tones. There should be a three month return clause, for the full price of four thousand, eight hundred eid. They wanted all Dally’s records back to his birth. Yaral was trying to say something chummy about the start of their business relationship, but Lyle had already turned, waving him away. As he wandered towards the door he stopped, turning to Dally. “Well? Come along.” Written by Rebecca Hartstein Edited by Juliet Manolias Content Warning The Loyal Ones is a darker fantasy setting, and won’t be suitable for all readers. The novel contains: Explicit violence and gore, slavery, implied sexual assault. None of these are framed as positive or glorified, however they do have a strong impact on the plot and main characters. Thank you for reading. . . . The Loyal Ones: Ch 1. Champion
Dally would be beaten bloody in an hour, and be happy about it. That was what he thought as he stepped out of the tunnel, swamped by a wave of cheers from the crowd. An acrid cloud of smoke hit him from a thousand cigarettes. The crowd swelled, ocean-like, pointing into the spotlight where Dally stood illuminated. The gold thread on his robe glowed. He grinned at them all, even while jogging to keep pace with Boss Yaral. When they reached the cage, Dally shrugged off his robe and stood, with outstretched arms, bathing in the love of the crowd. This was how gods felt, wrapped in smoke and light. They weren’t here for him, though. Across the ring, a far louder cheer rattled the windows as it cascaded through the stands. The light panned across the cage, dropping Dally into darkness along with the crowd. The other fighter wasn't scary looking, for a four-year champion. Like Dally, he didn’t have too much of the devil in this form. A sweetly human face was ruined only by grooves, to account for the snake-like stretch of his jaw, and yellow eyes. Those eyes were big, though, like a cow’s, and almost looked innocent. He was as clean-shaven and trim as the thralls on the war bond posters. Dally would have shaved like that, maybe, if someone spared him the blades. The phonocast screeched the name Seth Greenlees; reigning champion of the western counties for the last five years. By now the crowd was standing. Even the magi in front, their seal earrings glittering as they craned their necks. Seth was who they came to see. That was okay. Dally was looking at the champ too, trying to hide his awe behind gritted teeth. It was faker than usual, his dumb-mad-fighter expression. There was no way Dally could actually beat this guy, but getting ruined by him was an opportunity in itself; a leap above the small ring he’d come up from. If Dally looked good in the fight, he’d get better training and food, a chance to make something of himself. Maybe Seth would actually say something to him, like ‘that sucked less than I thought’. He shook himself out of the fantasy - it was time to change. A shiver rippled the skin on Dally’s back, he stretched his neck forward to pop the spines loose. The nearest men in the poor seats were leaning away from him, staring up as bone and muscle crunched above them. These urmage labourer types probably thought a thrall would rip their heads off. That was part of their fun - sitting where he could reach and grab them. Dally fixed his eyes carefully on the cage. Looking at them was asking for trouble. They were scared enough with him standing there breathing steam, shaking the squirrelly feeling out of his limbs. In the other corner, Seth was also done putting himself back together, already glowing with sweat. It was hot under the lights. Dally had never seen him except in pictures. Now, he had to stare, because it was like looking at a better, more dangerous version of himself. Same razor-edged tail, a little too long and heavy. Both of them hunched slightly, with clawed hands hanging past their knees. Even with that hunch, Seth had a half-foot on him. His crest spines brushed the wire ceiling of the cage. He looked heavier than Dally too - maybe another fifty pounds of muscle, sliding under shark-slick skin. Thin, silvery scars glowed under the lights, criss-crossed by shadows from the chain-link cage. He had no real deformities, though, which made Dally briefly cross his arms over the mound of scar tissue under his ribs. Baby Seth hadn’t needed fixing, he came out just perfect. The one thing Dally had on him was teeth. The champ’s were scarlet, but it was a lacquer, and chipped on the points from gnawing. Dally’s sprouted naturally red right from the black pits of his muzzle. They were lucky teeth. Dally had held his hands out to be taped as he thought, but when he looked down, they were still bare. Yaral’s assistant trainer had a look on his face like Dally was stupid and snorted as he swung out of the corner. When Dally glanced at the other corner, he saw no-one was taping Seth either, hands or feet. With his feet unbound the ends of his scythe-claws arced just above the floor. Dally stooped to speak to Yaral. His own voice sounded rough to him, too quiet. “Am I missing something?” “Dally… you thought you could stay out of blood matches forever?” Yaral clapped a fatherly hand on his back, avoiding the spines. “You just play the game best you can, alright? You’re a good boy. Good fighter. Okay?” Dally’s breath rushed into his lungs. He couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking too fast. The lights were swelling above the cage, burning brighter and brighter. This was why it was a large crowd — the biggest show was on. They got to see the returning champ gut a second-tier nobody. Yaral was looking at Dally, waiting. “Sure, boss,” Dally said. Seth was pacing his corner like a caged tiger, moving in and out of shadow. Scythe claws tapped on concrete, and he grinned so the crowd could see a second row of teeth. “You need a written invitation?” “As if you can write,” Dally yelled back, automatic. The crowd cackled at their bullshit, but Dally barely heard it through the roar of his own pulse in his ears. He drifted to his own corner, bouncing on his feet as the gate rattled shut behind him. Whenever his claws touched concrete, they flinched back to safety up by his ankles. On the phonocast they were now talking Dally up like he was something to watch; rising contender and favourite from the dry rings; nineteen feet tall and six hundred pounds. Seth’s introduction was longer. Much longer. It was a slow blur, right up until the siren. Dally caught a flash of painted teeth before Seth smashed into him, and the world spun. Dally landed on the bottom and writhed, hissing as claws raked down his side. He blindly clamped his teeth on the nearest flesh, rewarded with a hot rush of blood in his mouth. Things happened that he didn’t understand. There was an arm around his neck, another twisting his shoulder until he could feel something like cords snapping. Seconds passed, of being shredded and biting again and trying to twist away. When the siren rang at the end of the round, he was still underneath. Seth bounced up with his arms raised, howling into the wave of cheers. Dally stayed flat and panting on the concrete. He lashed his tail out to roll, but once he was on his stomach he just lay there, mouth spilling blood on the floor. There were sharp lines of pain down his back and sides where the Seth had clawed him, and his shoulder leaked blood from a deep bite. Dally remembered that he’d bit, too. When he squinted up into the light he saw there was a red wash the whole way down Seth’s back, trailing from the curve between neck and shoulder. “Hey,” someone said, “get up.” Dally snarled, faint, as he pushed himself off the concrete. He swayed as he stood, squinting through a whorl of black. The referee put a silk-gloved hand on Dally’s chest, shoving until he staggered towards his corner. “Atta boy.” Dally didn’t notice Yaral had come up behind him until a bucketload of water crashed over his head. He yelped, shocked, and watched it drain red into the cage gutters. An assistant smeared styptic powder into his wounds and Dally tipped his head back, panting. Okay. He was alive, for some reason. Seth hadn’t touched him with his scythe claws, and he easily could have; Dally had spent the whole round on his back, his stomach wide open. That meant the champ’s job was to drag this out, make it a real show. And Dally, if he was being honest, had forgotten that his own un-taped claws existed. Maybe Seth had been counting on that, too. When the siren blared again Dally screeched, but stepped aside to let Seth rush. The chain link rattled as he bounced off, and then they were circling, wary. Dally’s hands felt awkward, somehow, and he realised that he was making fists. Stupid. This was a grappling game. He tightened the fists, lips parting in a red-toothed grin. “You think you’re hot shit, huh?” Seth snorted. “I’m gonna eat that tongue first-” Dally got a punch in before Seth caught his arm, and then another one before they crashed together. Down and rolling, it was uglier than before, sweaty and jagged with broken spines. Dally wound up on the bottom again, and stayed there. When the bell sounded this time, Seth didn’t let go. He snarled into Dally’s arm, sinking his teeth deeper. From under him, Dally had a good view as a trainer stood over them with a piece of copper pipe and casually snapped it against the side of Seth’s skull. Seth yelped, his jaw going slack. He left Dally behind, glaring as he backed into his corner. Three more rounds passed like this. Dally was getting slower, leaking from gashes all down the front of his body. In between bouts he slumped against the wire, trying to remember what he was doing here. He was losing. On purpose, but also because he couldn’t do anything else. Each round Seth got more smug, and less wary of this dumb-shit dry ring fighter who didn’t use his claws. Dally figured the champ would string this along for at least eight rounds – a good length. This meant Dally had another three rounds of beating to get through. Then he’d do… something. Next round Seth put a hole below his rib cage. He dug in with a scythe claw and used it like a hook to pin him down. While Dally writhed Seth grinned by his ear. “You done yet, smartass?” “No,” Dally said. “Please-” Seth’s claw slid deeper until Dally howled. His own frantic scratching felt pathetic, even when Seth’s skin was collecting under his nails. Panicking, he finally kicked up with a scythe claw and felt a brief jolt of relief as the tip snagged flesh. Seth twisted, eel-like, so that the claw slid harmless down the side of his body. The champ snarled and clamped his jaws on Dally’s throat. Dally stopped breathing. The bell rang, and this time Dally needed a nudge from the ref’s boot to get him up. He did get up though, gasping, and limped back to the corner with fingers pressed to his side. While he had been worrying about being gutted or choked, Seth had torn a long line down his thigh with the other claw. Dally hadn’t even felt it. The new gash leaked in dull, red pulses. Dally spent the break on the ground with his back against the fence, heaving air in. He had about two more rounds before Seth wanted to end this, but what if he couldn’t move by then? Dally's tail struck the fence once, and he hunched forward to rub hard at his face. Red spots danced behind his eyelids. The next round Seth circled him, cheerful, tapping his claws. His smile crumpled as Dally’s leg buckled. Dally’s fall was as ugly and real as he could make it. Claws and spines snagged on the fence in a metallic jangle. Dally sprawled out, and Seth appeared over him, a yellow-eyed shadow with bright teeth. “Get up.” Dally only blinked up at him, bleary-eyed. The floor was comfortable, cold against the hot scrapes on his back. He fake-coughed once, which turned into a real coughing fit, burning his throat. Blood slowly warmed the concrete underneath him. A kick thumped against his wounded side, making him hiss. “Bitch, I know you can stand,” Seth said, “saf bitch, come on.” Another kick. And again. Dally made a lazy attempt to drag himself up the fence, then let himself sprawl boneless on the floor. By now the crowd had pitched up into one, long scream. ‘Blood!’ Someone yelled, starting a chant that rippled through the stands. Seth’s eyes flickered back to his own corner, lip twisted in a snarl. His trainer was watching in silence, a hand in his pocket. This wasn’t enough for them; they barely went six rounds. Seth tried picking him up and snarled when Dally crumpled to the floor. He tried hooking a claw in a hole and yanking. Nothing. Eventually Seth stood stiff, lost, looking back to the humans in his corner. He didn’t shrug, but there was a visible hunch in his shoulders that read ‘what the hell do you want?’ That was when Dally wrapped his tail around Seth’s leg. It was easy. He dragged him down, flailing, and gutted him. Dally had never sunk a scythe claw into something alive before. It peeled open the flesh of Seth’s belly, causing Dally to pause in confusion as the body beneath him dissolved into hot, wet stickiness. Seth was screeching now; a high pitched, raw sound Dally had never heard come out of a thrall’s mouth. He himself was grinning for some reason, lips stretched back around red teeth. Eventually, Seth stopped thrashing. With all the power drained from his muscles he was heavy and liquid-soft. Dally hissed blood, suddenly alone. The champ’s eyes were still wide open, surprised, staring at nothing. This was what a dead body looked like. Bile rose in Dally’s throat, along with a giddy rush – he wasn’t dead. Distracted by his thoughts, Dally had kneeled over the body, maybe wanting to get a closer look. He tore into Seth’s shoulder with his teeth, ripping away a chunk of meat. —-- In the tunnel, Dally changed form with one bloody hand braced against the wall, adding to the stains already on the plaster. His human body was colder, shakier. Seth’s blood looked worse on his smooth human skin, turning sticky between his fingers as it dried. He scraped at it with his nails, but barely any came off. Yaral watched and waited with hooded eyes, leaning on the same wall. He’d taken out a rune pen, the glass chamber sloshing blue as he tapped it restlessly on his hand. Dally could only watch out of the corner of his eye, as the last of his spines sank under his skin. It was a relief when Yaral drew back a hand and snapped it hard across his jaw. Dally staggered on his bad leg, panting as he caught himself. Yaral straightened the gold rings on his fingers, his face frozen somewhere between rage and confusion. “You killed him.” Dally swallowed, the taste of blood and fat lingered. “Sorry, boss-” “Fuck.” It was easy to see why he was pissed. The champ had been worth a hell of a lot more than Dally, and whatever deal Yaral had made for the fight was ruined. A long second passed while Dally stared dully at the ground in front of his feet. The pen hovered in the edge of his vision, a promise. “Yeah, you’re sorry, huh.” Yaral said, eventually. “Next time use your head.” He turned to stalk away, expecting that Dally would follow. Which he did, limping to catch up. The hole in his thigh dripped steadily, but he could walk okay. Okay was a lot better than expected. He had killed Seth Greenlees, and when he blinked, he could still see the empty eyes, the wet gleam of spilled intestines. Dally hadn’t thought he would eat him, but he had done that too. Now in this weaker form his gut ached. He had managed to tear off most of the meat before Yaral got him off the corpse – hot, bloody gulps that he barely chewed. After a minute, Yaral stopped tapping the pen and slid it back into the breast pocket of his overcoat. Dally let out a low breath. As they walked, he found the boss still staring at him. Slow, up and down. “Make sure Ingham cleans you up when we get back,” Yaral said. “You’ve got an inspection tomorrow. Clean, alright?” Dally blinked, remembering the smiling mage by the ring, the family crest in gold thread on his sleeve. Yaral’s mercy made more sense now - he didn’t want to mark the stock. Dally was up for sale. |
StoryThe Loyal Ones is an ongoing novel-length story published online. You can support the creation of the story by contributing to the Patreon. |