Coldmaker: Those who control Cold hold the power

‘Micah.’

I gave a start. I hadn’t heard Jadanmaster Geb sneak up on my right.

‘Look up,’ he commanded gently.

As Geb usually did on Procession day, he was adorned entirely in red: crimson robes, a fiery headscarf, and ruby sandals. Those who didn’t know Geb might think the colour scheme was a cruel insult, but in fact, it was a testament to his kindness. After the Procession, Geb often helped the punished Jadans back to their corners, and since he was dressed all in red, nobody had to feel guilty for smearing his clothing with blood.

‘How is the state of your shoulder?’ Geb asked. His face was sombre. I think in a way he hated the Processions almost as much as we did; each one of his Jadans caught was a direct failure for him, meaning a deduction from his pay and seeing one of us hurt.

‘Very good, sir. Thank you for your mercy.’ I made sure to sound properly gratified. ‘And thanks to the Khat for his mercy.’

‘Well said.’ He gave me a satisfied nod, his garnet earrings rocking back and forth. ‘You give your people a good name, Spout.’

‘I try to, sir.’

He gave a sad gulp and then walked off to find a spot near the Temple. I checked my slave stance as the Nobles continued to spill onto the street. Finally, the bells rang out, the crowd quieting.

The Procession started.

I couldn’t see their faces, but I could hear the chains swinging between their legs as they were marched down the street. A part of me was always glad I couldn’t lift my head at this stage, as I was never eager to witness such a dreadful display.

A few taskmaster feet marched alongside the row of the damned, their dirty toes peeking from their sandals, plagued with fungus. Jadans only got one bucket of steaming water a month to bathe with, and it was a mystery to me how we managed to stay cleaner than the taskmasters did. ‘Hate poxes the skin faster than Sun,’ Abb had once said to me.

The chains rattled heavily, chiming with the sound of excitable Nobles ready to catch the demonstration. The Jadans were led to the front of the Temple, my brothers and sisters gathered up onto the lowest step. I could feel their fear coursing through the streets, making my heart clench.

We all knew what was coming next.

I heard the crackle of the blade before I saw the fire.

The Vicaress of Paphos.

‘Heads high!’ Jadanmaster Geb yelled down the street. In one motion, we all lifted our heads.

The holy figure slid down Arch Road, all poise and grace.

The Vicaress – like all the women in the Khat’s family – was beautiful. She had a light complexion, and eyes of a startling blue that was never found in Jadankind. She wore a dress fashioned from dark, fine silk, which clung tightly to her body’s every curve. Her long black hair was styled above her head, decorated with a gold pin adorned with a Closed Eye. In her hand, she held a fiery blade straight above her head, the metal collecting angry light from the Sun and casting it around the street. A ring of flames blazed along the circular hilt, dripping tongues of fire into the sky. Although they sometimes licked at her hands, she never flinched. Rumour had it a Vicaress held a truce with pain itself, agreeing to give it out with merciless expertise, and in return, she’d never feel any herself.

Flanking her sides were two young Noble girls from the Khat’s close family. They wore sun-dresses of the purest white and faces stretched with glee. Each girl carried a basket overflowing with Rose of Gilead petals, ready to be laid at the Vicaress’s feet. They laughed as they plucked handfuls of the red petals and scattered them about carelessly, littering the street with velvety colour.

Abb had told me there was a huge garden laid out behind the Pyramid which only grew the Roses of Gilead. He said he’d often look out from under the giant slabs of stone on his back and admire the flowers, flourishing under the constant trickle of Cold water.

The Vicaress twisted her blade, the shine from the flames smacking my face. I managed to keep calm, head forward, not twitching; although I thought I felt her eyes go to my forehead.

She passed beside me as the song started.

Always the same song.

The words were a mystery to Jadans and Nobles alike, but the song haunted our dreams. They formed the song that Sun would sing if it ever succeeded in burning the world to sand. Yet it was a lovely melody. Intricate, with long dips and gentle shakes, flowing from the Vicaress’s lips as naturally as pain flowed off the end of a taskmaster’s whip.

Some of the Nobles along the street tried to join in, muttering along. But the melody was too complex for humming. A particularly jolly couple near me were swaying their fingers in the air, trying to predict where the notes might go, although it proved too difficult for them. They smiled brightly with each misplacement, popping Khatberries into their cheeks, red juice dripping down their chins.

Even from my corner, the fear coursing through the veins of the chained was palpable. I thought about my Cold Wrap, and how quickly I’d be added to the Procession if any taskmaster discovered me wearing it. I’d never felt the Vicaress’s blade, but each victim said the same thing: it was pain you could never prepare for, and once you felt the burning slice, you forever trembled every time you stepped off your corner.

From stories around the barracks, I knew Abb had been tortured in the Procession twice, both times before I was assigned to him, but he’d always refused to tell me anything more about it.

Down near the end of Arch Road a Noble voice yelled, ‘Burn them all!’ He was half-heartedly hushed by a few voices in the crowd, but the cry was mostly overlaid with titters and huffs of agreement.

The Sun shone directly overhead, pouring onto the fiery knife. The Vicaress continued to flow down the road, blade high and reverent.

Eventually she made her way to the front of the Arch Road Temple, the Noble girls emptying the rest of their baskets with a shake before skittering off to the side. At last the Vicaress stood still before the chained.

She lowered the tip of her scorched blade, drawing it back and forth between the prisoners’ faces. A few tensed up, but I think most were in shock. The taskmasters stood behind the small bodies, making the chained look ever feebler.

The Vicaress’s blade drifted to the leftmost Jadan, and we all cringed in the knowledge of what was to come. Only the sacred word would keep them alive, but the space where the declaration ended was also the place where the torture began.

The first Jadan was a little younger than me. His legs trembled, while the edges of his face seemed to melt from fear. His shirt showed signs of tearing where a taskmaster must have already taken out his own punishment.

The blade waited to cleanse him of sin.

‘Unworthy!’ the boy pressed out, his voice nearly breaking with effort. It was said that the louder you made your status known, the less time the fiery metal sizzled in your body.

Every Noble on the street cheered at the word, waving their Eyes. A child near me tossed his plush Eye into the air, catching it with a huge smile.

The Vicaress nodded to the boy’s taskmaster. Meaty paws held his shoulders as the Vicaress chose her point of entry.

The top portion of the blade slid into the boy’s side, right under his ribs, and the scream that followed curdled the air. I flinched, praying no one saw me move. The fiery metal was then removed with careful precision and the boy wobbled on his feet, screaming in pain, his eyes rushing back in their sockets.

The Vicaress then stepped in front of a girl of fifteen or sixteen, who fainted at the sight of the blade before her. The taskmaster behind her was ready, easily catching the slight body and keeping it upright. The Vicaress reached into her pocket and pulled out a cube of Glassland salt. She gently waved it in front of the girl’s nose until it released its smell. The girl jolted awake, her eyes popping wide in surprise and fear.

Then the tip of blade was rested over the girl’s heart, waiting to see if she would make the declaration.

‘Unworthy,’ the girl squeaked loudly.

The crowd erupted with glee as the metal was pressed into her shoulder, hissing with fury.

The girl’s scream was so huge that at first it came out silently, lips straining to expel the sound. Then it erupted in a wave that washed up and down Arch Road, leaving Noble applause in its wake.

The Vicaress went straight to her next prisoner, another girl, this one younger than the last. She barely looked old enough to be doing errands. The Jadan boy next to her tried lending a calming hand on the girl’s shoulder, but the Vicaress shook her head. She lifted the hand from the shoulder and sliced away his little finger with practised ease. The flesh tumbled to the ground, leaving the boy staring at his hand, his mouth gaping for a scream.

The Vicaress pressed a hand to the boy’s lips for silence.

A few Nobles whooped. My hands pulsed with anger, aching to wrap around their necks and strangle them to silence. Then I quickly remembered my place and unclenched my fists, tilting my head against the watchful sky.

The Vicaress turned her attention back to the young girl, who seized up, forgetting what she was supposed to do. She would know the word as well as her name – we all did – but fear often did strange things. I willed the word to her lips, my mind screaming it across the street.

The dagger was drawn over the girl’s heart, flames hungry.

Then came a moment which would change everything.

‘Worthy!’ a voice screamed from the rooftops. ‘Worthy! They’re all worthy, you filthy Sunwhore!’

A few bright parasols dropped in surprise. The nearest artist’s quill swung across his easel in shock, his painting ruined. All the taskmasters’ heads swivelled behind them, looking up to the Temple roof. Some gasped, but many remained still with shock, struggling to understand.

Up on the roof, a small figure shielded her face with a mask of boilweed. To everyone on the street, her identity was a mystery.

Everyone except me.

Her posture was astoundingly rigid, and even though her hair was now unbraided, it tumbled to just the right spot below her chin.

And she was holding a Shiver.

My Shiver. It had to be.

It gleamed bright and brown in her hands. She must have doubled back that night and kept it for herself.

In one movement, the Upright Girl raised the Shiver above her head, and with a strong swing of her arms, hurled it down like the World Crier Himself.

The Shiver struck the steps beside the chained Jadans and exploded in a crack of Cold, the air rushing down the entire street, sending the Rose of Gilead petals swirling. The crowd shook as their robes were blown back, the Cold air swarming every inch of their bodies. When the Cold washed over my face I couldn’t hold back the gasp. I’d never felt anything so devastatingly wonderful, and I knew I might never experience anything like it again.

‘Worthy!’ the Upright Girl’s voice boomed over the crowd before she turned to flee.

It was the first time I’d ever seen the Vicaress lose her composure, an unsettled look creeping into the corners of her eyes. A look like fear.

All the taskmasters moved after the girl immediately, scrambling to find a way onto the Temple roof; but even if they managed to get up there, they would have no luck catching her.

I knew how fast the girl could move.

The Vicaress pointed the blade at the empty roof, murder in her eyes, as the Rose of Gilead petals drifted back towards the street.

Chapter Seven

Tradition demanded that while waiting on the barracks wall we keep our eyes closed and mouths shut until we are given our evening rations. It wasn’t like Gramble could hear us from his guardhouse, especially if we kept our voices hushed, but most Jadans kept quiet out of respect and fear.

Tonight was different.

For the first time since I could remember, tradition was ignored by absolutely everyone. The main chamber of our barracks was thick with conversation. Whispers reached my ears from every direction.

‘I heard she’s the Sun’s daughter. And that her face is one giant flame, that’s why she has to hide it.’

‘If her face was a flame, it would have burned the boilweed mask.’

‘The boilweed was from sky’s crib. It’s magic.’

‘She has to hide her face, because one look and your eyes melt to sand.’

‘You ever seen anything like this?’

‘Not since the Twin Frosts fell a few generations back.’

‘But never so blatant.’

‘Never.’

‘Rebellion?’

‘Hush! To what point? Can’t rebel against the Crier.’

‘I heard the Vicaress caught the girl and is roasting her on a spit on top of the Pyramid right now.’

‘She going to eat her?’

‘The Sun is. We’ll be picking up her bones in the morning. They’ll want us to mix them with the straw and clay.’

‘Well, we know what this means. Bigger quota. I’d bet a finger on it.’

‘Damn it, how can they possibly make the quotas bigger.’

‘She screwed us all. They’re going to want triple Shivers tomorrow to make up for it. We won’t get our breaks.’

A scoff. ‘Breaks!’

‘I heard she’s from Langria.’

‘Langria’s not real.’

‘Why’d she smash it in the Market Quarter?’

‘Didn’t like the prices.’

A playful slap. ‘Be serious.’

‘Spout was there. He might know.’

Eyes turning towards me.

‘Think of how long she could have lived on that Shiver for.’

‘We all could have.’

I looked across the barracks at the expanse of boilweed divisions, doubting many of us would sleep tonight. Nothing this dramatic had happened in Paphos since that young monk from the Southern Cry Temple ran through the streets naked, prophesying the end of the Great Drought. Of course, that monk had been a Noble, so his punishment was simply confinement in a dungeon until his sanity returned.

None of us could have ever had the bravery to do this. And if the Upright Girl got caught, being roasted on a spit would be getting off lightly.

I turned to Moussa who stood beside me. A hand went into his pocket, and he pulled out a pinch of the gem candy dust I’d given him the other night. Shrugging, he offered it to me first.

I shook my head. ‘Have you not eaten it yet?’ I asked, knowing full well how hard it must have been not to devour all the sugar the second it was in his possession.

‘I saved it for a special occasion.’ Moussa gestured around the room. ‘Seems appropriate now. Bad times are ahead.’

‘You think?’

Moussa’s face soured. He smelled of a long shift, and his breathing was still a bit wheezy and shallow. Abb had said his rib would heal within a few weeks. ‘They always are.’

From my other side, Matty said: ‘I want to meet the Shiver Girl. She’s invincible.’

‘Invincible, huh?’

‘And did’ja know she can fly?’

I paused, holding back my smile. ‘How do you know?’

Matty gave me a look questioning if I was being serious. ‘Because the Vicaress didn’t catch her.’

‘But what if the Vicaress did catch her, but the Boilweed Girl is just invincible,’ I replied.

Matty thought about it, his face scrunching with the effort. ‘That’s prolly it. I’m jealous you got to see her.’

Moussa’s eyes went dark. ‘Here’s the thing, Matty. You’re too young to understand how bad this is. She’s a plague.’

‘Ten’s not that little.’ Matty smiled, bright and big. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the metal and yarn feather, waving it in front of my eyes. I wasn’t sure how the thing hadn’t been confiscated yet, since he always kept it on him during his errands. ‘Especially if you don’t know long you’re going to live.’

I was stunned, my stomach flipping into a horrified knot. I looked over at Moussa for help, but he looked just as taken aback.

‘Matty,’ I said. My chest squeezed, but he had a point. I couldn’t help but think of the one-eyed boy I’d delivered to the alley; he’d looked even younger than Matty.

Matty kept waving the feather, possibly oblivious to how sad his statement came across. His smile didn’t falter as he watched the yarn dance.

Moussa tried to step in. ‘You can’t look at it like—’

‘I don’t mean it in a bad way,’ Matty said. ‘It’s like, some things prolly don’t last as long as they should.’ The feather caught the first of the starlight through the roof. ‘It makes ’em special,’ he continued. ‘And then you can hope they come back.’

I felt my throat swell shut, struggling to keep the tears out of my eyes.

‘For now, let’s just assume we’re all going to work the Patches together,’ I said. ‘And then the Pyramid, and we’ll all die as old men with grey hair.’ I tried on a smile, but it didn’t fit. ‘Maybe we’ll even finish your board game.’

‘Grey hair like Zeti Gum?’ Matty thrust the feather across the room like a sword.

Old Man Gum was standing with the Builders, but he was facing the wrong way, and seemed to be attempting to carve something into the barracks wall with his fingernail.

‘Greyer,’ Moussa said, the humour returning to his voice. ‘I guarantee the hair on our toes is going to be grey.’

‘Whatsit feel like, Spout?’ Matty asked, talking above the rising whispers of our kin. ‘Getting touched by Big Cold.’

I sank against the wall, thinking. ‘I can’t really explain it.’

Matty gave me a pleading look. ‘Can you try?’

I swivelled my head to Moussa, who gave a curious shrug.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I’d never forget the feeling, but it was difficult putting it into words. ‘It was like the Crier himself was lifting me into the night sky. And Great Gale putting her lips right on me.’

Moussa arched an eyebrow. ‘Like you know what a kiss feels like.’

I gave Moussa a playful nudge, making sure not to hit his ribs.

‘I’m going to kiss the Boilweed Girl,’ Matty said.

‘You mean the Upright Girl …?’ I asked, letting the words sink in.

‘Upright how?’ Moussa asked.

I held up my palm and made it straight like a knife, the same way as before.

Moussa paused, his face sinking with a frown. ‘Wait, you don’t think …’

I nodded. ‘I definitely think. She stood the same way. And where do you think she got that Shiver from?’

Matty’s eyes widened, his voice rising. ‘But’chu touched it? Does that mean the Vicaress is going to come after you too? You’re smart and everything, Spout, but you’re prolly not invincible like her.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘But the Upright Girl came to my corner the other day and watched me from the alley. I think she has something to tell me. That may have even been why she chose the Market Quarter.’

Moussa’s face went so dark it practically melted into shadow. ‘That’s a really terrible idea. The Vicaress has got the same holy blood as the Khat. And she’s going to find your Upright Girl soon, and when she does, you won’t want to be anywhere near her.’

‘This girl is different,’ I said, feeling foolish for defending someone I knew nothing about. ‘I can feel it.’

‘Micah, she’s the enemy,’ Moussa said with a snarl. The bars went back up behind his eyes. ‘She’s going to bring bad times for all of us, all for some stupid waste of Cold.’

Before I could speak, Old Man Gum pounded a fist against the wall, right before the chimes went off above our heads. All the conversation ceased immediately, every Jadan falling into perfectly subservient poses: shoulders in, chin down, slight bends at the hip.

Gramble came into the barracks with his rations cart, a look of deep disturbance on his face. I hoped it was just from our talking and nothing more.

‘Barracks forty-five,’ Gramble called out, in a tone of voice that was very much unlike him. ‘There has been a certain disturbance today during the Procession. I am aware that a few of you disobey the rules and sneak out of here at night.’ I tried not to look too guilty. Gramble then waved about a piece of parchment that had a freshly cracked wax seal. ‘This ends tonight. Writ from the Khat himself has it that any Jadan caught out at night will be executed on the spot, and their Barracksmaster will go without pay for a month.’ His eyes were boring into mine now. ‘This sneaking about ends tonight. All of you.’

Gramble went around with his Closed Eye and gave out the evening rations. When it was my turn to declare myself ‘Unworthy’ I did so in a shaky voice, unable to look my Barracksmaster in the face.

‘I told you,’ Moussa said as we broke free from the wall, a grim veil over his eyes. ‘Bad times are ahead.’

Chapter Eight

Metal footsteps clanked in rhythm to the ‘Khat’s Anthem’.

Holy Eyes have long forsaken

Those of Jadankind

But the Khat is made of mercy

For those blind to the Cry

The heavy steps sounded from the distance, their clunking so sharp I knew the shoes must have steel soles. I steadied my voice, doing my best not to draw attention to myself. Unless Jadanmaster Geb had decided to go with an armour theme for his outfit today, then this was someone else stomping down Arch Road.

He keeps us from the darkness

He gives us hope and grace

Long live the Khat and all his sons

Who saved the Jadan race

The anthem finished and Arch Road went silent, but the footsteps carried on in slow progression. I kept my chin tucked in, listening to the scratch of a quill on parchment before each thundering shuffle.

The Sun was scrutinizing everything closely, its rays focused and strong. My corner’s tiny lip of stone was no match for the sky’s flare, and I could feel the moisture beading out of my forehead. I knew every Jadan on their corner would be wondering the same thing: who did these footfalls belong to, and where had our Jadanmaster gone?

The sky seemed eager to lap up our tension.

‘Spout,’ a smooth voice announced.

I nodded, keeping my head tucked in. ‘Yes, sir.’

There was another rustle of parchment, and a fine pair of leather shoes came into my vision, their bottoms cupped with iron. ‘Peculiar. That’s what the scroll says. But Spout is not a name.’

My chest squeezed with worry. I noted the ease with which this new Nobleman was speaking, as if he already belonged here. ‘My Barracksmaster calls me Spout, sir. So do most of the taskmasters and Nobles who know me.’

‘Look up.’

I hadn’t realized how sweaty I was until I jerked my head up, flinging a big, globby droplet from my forehead, which, thank the World Crier, fell just shy of his fancy shoes.

The Nobleman above gave me a disgusted look from a flat and broad face. Light grey stained the hair at his temples, and a deep scar crossed his face from forehead to ear. He had the look of an assassin from one of the High Houses. His stance was commanding, accentuated by a knotted red rope around his shoulders; and his hand was cupped gracefully around a crisp roll of parchment.

The man scribbled something onto his sheet. ‘Gramble is your Barracksmaster?’

I nodded, the sweat stinging my eyes.

His lips thinned, the scar settling deeper into his face. Stepping back, he announced to the whole street in a booming voice: ‘Ears! I am Jadanmaster Thoth. I am now in charge of the slaves in this Quarter, as Jadanmaster Geb proved to be ineffective. For the next two years, you will be under my supervision. You will receive water and figs at bell three and bell seven. If you miss water because of an errand, then you will receive an extra portion on the following bell. Praise be to the Khat.’

He relaxed his chest, lowering his voice so that only I could hear it. ‘I know that Gramble takes certain lenience with his slaves, but I assure you that I am not as soft-hearted as he.’