The Hanging City (61)

Unach stirs her morning brew and takes a sip. “I’ll file with the council to make you an official servant. You’d be more or less my property. It would give you some protection. After that, he wouldn’t dare. I’ll kill him if he does. It would be my right.” She must see my discomfort, for she frowns. “He won’t, Lark. I’ll file today.”

The idea of being property whisks me back to my father’s house in Lucarpo. But Cagmar’s laws are different; this is the best we can do, and I’m grateful. I don’t love the idea of being an official servant, but I have the feeling Unach won’t abuse the new relationship. If it protects me from Grodd and keeps me close to her and Azmar, I’ll consent to just about anything.

At least the anxiety drives back the fatigue. Keeping my head down, I finish breakfast quickly so I won’t be late for my shift. Unach doesn’t complain about escorting me to the south dock. I search the shadows the entire way. She does, too. We run into no trouble, and Unach leaves me to my harnessing, not even bothering to greet Troff and Kesta.



The only monsters I see are small ones, about the size of a large dog, rooting around nearby for nesting materials. They’re called troders, fat-bodied bird things with wicked-looking talons on long, spindly legs. Not a threat to the city, but I scare them off anyway. I’m actually getting used to the sling. I can’t hit any of them, but I get close enough to dissuade them from exploring any closer.

Neither Unach nor Azmar can escort me back when my shift ends; they both have work of their own. But it’s a busy time of day, so if nothing else, I feel protected by the crowds. Still, at every corner, I search for Grodd’s broad, scrunched face and his inky shadow.

I let myself into the apartment and start cooking dinner. I suppose this will be an official task for me now, instead of a trade of services. Azmar gets home first, looking tired, but he greets me before sloughing off his heavy belt and slipping into his bedroom. Unach arrives only half an hour later. There’s a bandage wrapped around her calf. She’s in a foul mood, so I don’t ask. When Azmar returns, I serve them dinner, eating my own near the fireplace. I couldn’t eat with them even if they invited me—the high table seats only two.

As the sun pulls away from the canyon, I don the role of servant and take on every possible chore I can fathom: washing dishes, sweeping the floor, organizing the rations, anything to keep me from going down a level to my own room.

I put out the fire. I scrub out the cookpot. Dust. Tighten the nuts on the water pump. Set out grains to soak for breakfast. Rearrange the cold box.

Unach stands over me as I scrub an old stain in the floor grout, her hands on her hips. “Go to bed, Lark.”

“I don’t mind working,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I can even oil your weapons.”

She snorts. “The council will approve my request, and I made a point of sharing it with the local gossips. He’ll kiss the canyon floor before he lays a finger on you.”

My scrubbing slows. My knuckles ache, and lack of sleep makes my muscles sore. “Do you have anything that needs mending?”

Azmar stands in the doorway to his room. He says, gently yet firmly, “Go to sleep, Lark. You’ll be safe.”

I should be. Unach isn’t a liar. And yet the promise flits away on the air. There might be space to sleep beneath my cot. Then, if Grodd comes in the middle of the night, he’ll think I’m gone. The idea lends me a little courage.

I return the scrub brush to its bucket and wipe my hands on my skirt. “Of course.”

Feeling small, I keep my head down and slip into the corridor, closing the door softly behind me. I scan both ways, checking the shadows. Something moves to my right, but it’s only the trollis in the neighboring apartment.

My clammy hands barely grip the ladder rungs as I drop down to my level. Again I scan the darkness. Hold my breath and listen. Someone converses down the way, too distant for me to make out individual words. I sprint to my door. Open and close it.

I won’t light a candle. I won’t make a sound. I won’t do anything to reveal I’m here.

If I have to use my ability for self-defense, will Qequan still punish me?

Lowest of the low, I remind myself. Even lower than a Pleb.

In the dark, I get down on my knees and feel under the cot. There isn’t enough room to crawl under, but there might be if I lift the cot, roll under, and then lower it over me.

I’ve little space to work with, and I’m clumsy in the dark. I scoot my little table closer to the door, as out of the way as I can get it. Then I roll up my two blankets, including the fur Azmar gave me, and put them on the table, wishing I had moonlight to see by. Tugging the cot out from the wall, I wince when it scrapes across the stone loudly. Then I lift it and push it against the far wall. I stub my toe on the table when I go to retrieve the blankets. The thicker one can go on the floor, to nullify the stone’s chill. And the thinner one—

Lamplight peeks through a hair-fine crack in my door. My throat constricts.

A soft knock sounds.

Grodd wouldn’t knock.

I steel myself before croaking, “Ritha?”

“Lark.” It’s Azmar’s voice.

All my breath rushes from me. I dart to the door, stumbling once, and open it.

Azmar lifts his lamp and looks into my room. “What are you doing?”