Sorry, Mom. I'll break my promise today for a peaceful tomorrow.
"Ready, Kael?" A woman's voice drifted from the open door behind Kael.
It was aged, like the person, but usually neither warm nor cold. If anything, Kael always found it more thoughtful than necessary for a woman who ran a night shelter for children. Yet, today, she sounded the most eager he had heard her in years.
"In a minute, Sister Harrow," he answered without rising or turning back from an altar that barely reached his knees. He had built it from junk and shaped discarded linen into something that looked like flowers. From the books his mother forced him to read, at least. In truth, he had never seen a real one.
At the center lay his treasure: a scavenged scrap, two inches of paper with burnt-edge lace. For a boy like him, it was a luxury. Ink would have been a king's ransom. A painting, a dream from a better world.
Sister Harrow's hand met his shoulder. Even as she spoke, he didn't spare her a glance. "What happened to Nessa was a tragedy, one among many others. No one knows what Morvana weaves for us. At least, we're part of something. You too, child, and that something is calling."
Sister Harrow used to tell him and the other children that people above commissioned professionals to paint their loved ones. He didn't understand back then.
Now he did.
They wanted to immortalise their faces. He did as well. Not the sunken one ravaged by the illness that took her two days ago, but the gentle one and its infinite variations of smiles. They were more important than whatever elusive god planned for them…
But all he managed was a line scribbled with a soot-coated stick and a graveless memorial.
Rest in peace, Mom.
Feeling Sister Harrow's hand tighten on his shoulder, he shoved one of the junk flowers in his pocket. At least, his mom would accompany him.
Then, he nodded at a smaller altar, much less decorated, and built much earlier—his father's. He didn't remember the man, too young when he died down the mines. Still, he offered him his respect before rising tight-chested. These memories were his most valuable and only possession. "I'm ready."
"Nessa would want you to be strong, not sheltered. I like you, Kael, really, but you know how it is. I can only welcome as many children as there is space on the ground, and you're among the oldest already. It's time for you to earn your bread." Sister Harrow sized his gaunt arms with her deep blue eyes for a silent heartbeat. Something sparkled in their depths, something that always made Kael avoid her gaze.
As he turned his head, she lifted his dark hair with a gentle brush. She locked her gaze with his blue eyes, and even though she smiled, he shuddered.
"And to put some muscle on you. Not complaining. They needed someone light, which made you perfect for the job. But remember. You can't waste this opportunity. Two silver crowns for a couple of hours and secrecy, and if you do well, they might call you for other jobs. Don't ask me about this one, though; I don't know, and neither will you after you're done. Off you go before they complain about being late. And, Kael, I know you're still grieving, but your parents wouldn't want you to struggle for a spot in this old shelter."
She nudged him to the broad doorsill, and he watched her dark dress sway. A new one with finery woven across her shoulders. Never seen such detail in clothing. Not here. Not even in the center of the slums. Even if he had, one thing was sure.
That new dress didn't belong to people like them, not when he wore a patched gray shirt, and pants that had once been brown but leaned toward pale yellow now. The soles of his shoes were knitted, and the surface patched with rags. Only the gods knew how many teenagers they had belonged to before they reached him.
To wear something so beautiful... was it her share for introducing him to the job? Likely. What kind of job paid so much?
Two silver crowns. That was a week of the finest meat. A month if he rationed himself, with still enough for a real memorial. Something didn't add up, and Sister Harrow wouldn't tell him more.
Without answering, Kael left the shade of the small communal building. Nothing was free in the slums, not even good intentions, especially not those from a self-proclaimed sister who spoke of the gods only when she had something to earn.
He covered his nose with his shirt as he strolled down an alley flanked with twisted houses half-built from metal. The air was heavy, filled with dust from the mines and the cold of winter.
The oldest said it was worse before and that they missed the sun. He couldn't imagine it. Nor could he imagine the sun. All he knew was that it should be somewhere above, and that down there, cogs, and pipes, and steam mattered more than gods.
Even as he neared the center of the slums, he had no heart to watch them rotate with the same curiosity. Instead, his eyes darted between people better dressed than he was, yet as pale, to the clean spots where his mom begged on her coarse sheet. In front of Maelin Quor's shop, by the central venue's lamppost, right before the Black Cask bar. His destination...
It hurt that she was gone, but Sister Harrow, for all his suspicion, was right. He couldn't hold his promise not to mingle with the same gangs that controlled water, food, and supplies if he wanted something more than not knowing whether he would eat before sleep or die this winter. He wanted to see the sun—he wanted peace.
Beneath the neon lights of the bar, Kael paused to gaze up. Two burly thugs glared at him, while passersby covered their mouths to whisper. He gazed up at bridges and beams thicker than ten men. Through the holes in their structure, far above the pit he lived in, he barely saw the corner of a white house. Up there, they had to be at peace.
He shook his head. A part of him hoped he would taste it too.
His hand froze an inch over the handle. Some doors became impossible to close once they were open. His mom's words. She was gone. He had to survive.
A steely glint entered his eyes, and he pushed the polished door open. The thugs at the entrance smirked, as if they knew someone like him would come, as if they were used to it.
Kael stepped into a world of a different kind. Behind dust and steam. In front, smoke from cigarettes burning on their ashtrays or at the mouths of men twice as broad as he was. Intoxicating scents clawed their way out of their mugs. And lights... so many lights aimed at women dressed in revealing tops and split skirts that emphasised their long legs as they danced on the central platform.
For a moment, Kael couldn't peel his eyes from their curves. The rhythm was entrancing. The shouts of men, raising their fists to the phonograph's beat between bites of food he'd never tasted, fed into the sweet confusion.
Then, a voice snapped him out of his daze. "Are you lost, boy?"
Kael turned to the counter. A lady scrutinised him.
Her light brown eyes, veering to a soft red, made him shudder. She was at least ten years older than he, with skin as pale and smooth as silver. Her dark hair, braided tight, fell behind her broad white shirt. But when a vagrant light passed by, Kael could swear he saw something glint beneath the fabric. Not the clean glasses or bottles on the shelves behind, but something sharp like her eyes.
The lady leaned forward, then nodded. "I remember you. The son of the beggar, right? She had a delicate face, nice enough for me to offer her a job here years ago. I can see a bit of her beauty in you. She almost broke my heart when she refused. A strong-willed woman. Now she feeds whatever lives in the pit, like the other strong-willed. At least, you seem smarter than she was. Anyway, the name's Silma Reed."
Kael clenched the junk flower in his pocket, but eventually released it. Slander wouldn't alter his memory of his mom. The two silver crowns could change his future. "I came for the job. I'm Ka—"
"I don't care what you're called." Silma cut him off as she lifted the flap in the counter. "Prove yourself, then maybe I'll bother learning your name." She jerked her thumb toward the back office. "Garrick's waiting. Try not to bleed on his rug."
Kael knocked on the door, too happy to escape her gaze, then slipped into the office the moment he heard a firm, "Come in."
Garrick Vane, the uncrowned lord of the slums. He never expected to meet the man. Yet, there he was, behind the heavy oak table, seated on a red leather chair.
Garrick interlocked his fingers beneath his chin, his face made more menacing by the shadows cast by the oil lamp burning beside the thick, open ledger. The scars tracing two lines down his golden eyes made Kael feel like a rabbit eyed by a beast wearing the skin of a man in his mid-forties. No, it was worse. It was as if a target had been painted on his chest. In the lamplight, the fine weave of his striped suit added to Kael's unease.
Then, Garrick ruffled his short wheat-colored hair and chuckled. His expression turned almost soft—the unsettling kind of soft. "Skinny enough. Kael, right? Heh. Sister Harrow says you can keep your mouth shut, unlike lads your age. Brannick. Sharpen the lad's claws. In Theda's name, he needs it. Not a sword. A knife's perfect."
Kael's eyes widened as a hooded man moved from the side of the room. Even as he approached, Kael couldn't hear his footsteps or see his dark cloak move.
How?
With a shake of his head, he ignored the simple dagger that rested on Brannick's gloved palm. Instead, he stepped toward Garrick's desk. Hesitation made each step harder to take, but he had to ask. "Excuse me, sir. Even though Sister Harrow didn't tell me what I would do, she assured me it'd be safe. So, why the weapon?"
"Mhh," Garrick lit up a cigar. It was only after he blew a circle toward Kael that he answered. "No violence. You're heading down the mines with Brannick and a few guys to fetch something."
A furrow creased Kael's brow. The mines... He didn't want to go to the place that took his father. "What's in the mines but coal and ores already excavated?"
"Intrigued, or just wary? Anyhow, we found a submerged passage that possibly leads to something from before the first mine shaft was dug. My man said the stone was cut in a way he'd never seen. Smooth… Wrong. Don't bother asking more. That's what you're here for." Garrick pointed his cigar at Kael. "Don't worry about what is. Clean and simple. The knife is a precaution… and I'd hate for Sister Harrow to think I sent you down there naked."
Kael let out a heavy sigh. Exploration, not killing someone. "What if I find nothing?"
"You get half and return to Sister Harrow. Don't overcomplicate everything, Kael. People call me names you likely don't want to speak about, but I'm like you, thrown here because of the mistake of a nameless criminal or slave. I don't even know myself, but like them, I'll likely die for the comfort of those bastards above. Doesn't it infuriate you? Don't you want to leave these godforsaken slums for the world above?" At Garrick's wave, Brannick's hand found Kael's shoulder. "This is your first step. Brannick will supervise you. He's my best man, you know? That's a mark of my appreciation, and my hope that this job will make your life easier."
Brannick guided Kael outside before he could even answer. The cold hilt of the dagger pressed against his stomach, and he instinctively gripped it.
"Two silver crowns to wet yourself. One at worst. Don't let the rest distract you." Brannick's voice lacked passion. He nodded at Silma before moving to a table at the back of the bar.
Kael followed, but stopped a couple of steps back. His mind rumbled with a single word: odd. The mission, the high pay, Garrick's best man, the promise of safety—everything felt wrong.
No matter what they said, he didn't believe two crowns came without risks, much less for uncertain benefits. There was more. Things Garrick omitted before burying them under his pretence of shared hardships. In a sense, he was like Sister Harrow, only more threatening.
What have they really found in these old mines? Or is it gas-filled or coal-frail? Is this why they need someone light and can't widen the passage?
Better, should he leave? Definitely. Swimming wasn't something he knew. He could manage for the money... most likely... but the door had already been open. He was aware of the passage in the mines. They wouldn't allow him to close it. Not alive. He didn't want to either. It was irrational, foolish even. But he saw his mom slowly turn into a ghost. His two paths were clear. Slowly turn into one as she did, or risk becoming one tonight for a possibility.
His grip tightened on the dagger, just as Brannick returned with two men barely older than he was, but clearly filled their shirts better than he did. Both hoisted a burlap bag on their shoulders, glanced at him, then moved outside.
"Don't worry," Brannick whispered from beneath his hood, an inescapable hand pushing Kael's out. "We'll be done before midnight."
Garrick's right. Nothing holds me back in these slums.
Biting his lip, Kael followed them. The cold made him shiver, but the hope and fear for the future spiralling in his tight chest made him press behind Brannick.
It was the door he chose to open.
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An: What do you think Kael will find in the mines?
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