Soot District • The Dives
Early Evening on the 30th of Dentis, 2719
T
he cold hurt. It ached through his hands. He’d put on a pair of patchy gloves, and over that another pair with the fingers out — both made for a natt, rumpled and baggy; too big, bafflingly big, though they’d’ve been too small for the hands he used to have. Still he rubbed warmth into the joints with stiff, shaky thumbs.
The corner where Wilkes met Cross was crowded enough, on a market day, but the bustle was thinning out toward the evening. Not much sunlight trickled in overhead, where the old buildings leaned to put their heads together.
Tom’d got what he came for; the little paper bundle was tucked into one voluminous pocket of his coat. For now, he reckoned, that was good enough. His head ached, a dull throb from the base of his skull.
He took a pina few seconds to lean against the cool, damp brick outside the cobbler’s, to shiver into his coat and rest his head back and light a smoke. Nearby, a little dark-headed lad in a scuffed-up apron was shining an old tsat’s shoes. Tom studiously ignored him, but he caught the lad looking at him, once or twice, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he looked nervous.
Well, let him stare.
He let his eyes flutter shut. It was dark, then, broken up by the darker dark of passersby, the drifting motes of floaters. He held his cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers, and breathed out more smoke into the foggy air; he thought of the factories belching out white smog against the dark sky.
It was better than Uptown, anyway, even though his whole body ached, unused to the labor he was putting it to. Anything was better than Uptown; he didn’t want to remember those first weeks.
He knew he got the occasional look, usually at the scraping brush of his porven field. He was used to it, by now, laoso to say. He’d pulled a dark wool hat over his head, but more than a few red curls escaped from underneath, shot through with silvery grey at the temples, and his jaw was dusted with coppery stubble. He was a good few heads shorter than most of the kov, and even the chip, who went this way; he hoped to the gods he passed for a tsat, but he reckoned he’d’ve been the golliest-looking wick ever came this way.
His coat swallowed him whole, patch-elbowed and threadbare, and between drags he huffed warmth into the turned-up collar in vain. He shifted his narrow shoulders in it, shivering, frowning deeply.
Because even with his eyes shut, he could feel it. Even with his hands covered up in gloves, he knew they weren’t his. Even with the early Vortas chill stinging his face half-numb, he could feel the bizarre landscape of it. He could feel the mona around him, as strange and grating to him as he was to them, scraping at his nerves in a way he couldn’t describe.
None of it was the kind of shit he was equipped to describe, and being honest, that was benny enough. Tom hoped he’d never have to describe it; he sure as flooding hell didn’t like thinking about it, and he was doing everything in his power to keep from thinking much at all.
He’d had some to drink, and it helped, but the headache wasn’t easing; the headache never eased, these days. Grimacing, without opening his eyes, he reached deep in one pocket for his flask. He found it quick enough, the dented metal chill through his thin gloves. But he didn’t take it; instead, his brows drew together, and his lip curled back from his teeth.
Something else was missing. He fumbled round in that pocket, and found only his flask; he fumbled round in the other and found his matchbox, a couple of ratty hair ties — now he did open his eyes, patting down his coat, reaching into the inside pocket and finding nothing but a handful of pennies.
No flooding wallet. No mistake, neither; wasn’t many places it could be. Blinking, he looked about him on the street. A carriage rattled by, through the mist, disappearing quick. Two nattles, laughing, one young and one old, one with a basket over her arm and one cradling her belly. A big kov, a docker by the looks of him, bustling by with a spring in his step. Tom’s eyes alighted on each, and jumped to the next, helpless.
The suspicious shoe-shiner. Tom jerked his head to look at the lad, and, for the first time, light grey eyes met dark. Tom’s eyes narrowed, and his thin lips twisted.
“Vrunta! Hey, hey!” he growled, just as the lad started moving.
The sound of the voice — too deep, too… old — not me, everything in him screamed, not me, somebody else — sent a jolt through him, so he froze, like a startled deer. By the time he recovered himself, he could see the lad slipping round a corner. “Godsfuckindamnfloodit,” he muttered, “shitshit—” He tossed down the cigarette, ground it out with the heel of his boot, and set off after him, stiff on his aching hip.
His heart hammering in his ears, he managed to keep up with the lad halfway down an alleyway, though he’d nearly slipped in some laoso slush twice, and the shoe-shiner was rabbit-fast. But he lunged and grabbed him by the shoulder, bony thin fingers digging in through his gloves.
“You,” he snapped.
he cold hurt. It ached through his hands. He’d put on a pair of patchy gloves, and over that another pair with the fingers out — both made for a natt, rumpled and baggy; too big, bafflingly big, though they’d’ve been too small for the hands he used to have. Still he rubbed warmth into the joints with stiff, shaky thumbs.
The corner where Wilkes met Cross was crowded enough, on a market day, but the bustle was thinning out toward the evening. Not much sunlight trickled in overhead, where the old buildings leaned to put their heads together.
Tom’d got what he came for; the little paper bundle was tucked into one voluminous pocket of his coat. For now, he reckoned, that was good enough. His head ached, a dull throb from the base of his skull.
He took a pina few seconds to lean against the cool, damp brick outside the cobbler’s, to shiver into his coat and rest his head back and light a smoke. Nearby, a little dark-headed lad in a scuffed-up apron was shining an old tsat’s shoes. Tom studiously ignored him, but he caught the lad looking at him, once or twice, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he looked nervous.
Well, let him stare.
He let his eyes flutter shut. It was dark, then, broken up by the darker dark of passersby, the drifting motes of floaters. He held his cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers, and breathed out more smoke into the foggy air; he thought of the factories belching out white smog against the dark sky.
It was better than Uptown, anyway, even though his whole body ached, unused to the labor he was putting it to. Anything was better than Uptown; he didn’t want to remember those first weeks.
He knew he got the occasional look, usually at the scraping brush of his porven field. He was used to it, by now, laoso to say. He’d pulled a dark wool hat over his head, but more than a few red curls escaped from underneath, shot through with silvery grey at the temples, and his jaw was dusted with coppery stubble. He was a good few heads shorter than most of the kov, and even the chip, who went this way; he hoped to the gods he passed for a tsat, but he reckoned he’d’ve been the golliest-looking wick ever came this way.
His coat swallowed him whole, patch-elbowed and threadbare, and between drags he huffed warmth into the turned-up collar in vain. He shifted his narrow shoulders in it, shivering, frowning deeply.
Because even with his eyes shut, he could feel it. Even with his hands covered up in gloves, he knew they weren’t his. Even with the early Vortas chill stinging his face half-numb, he could feel the bizarre landscape of it. He could feel the mona around him, as strange and grating to him as he was to them, scraping at his nerves in a way he couldn’t describe.
None of it was the kind of shit he was equipped to describe, and being honest, that was benny enough. Tom hoped he’d never have to describe it; he sure as flooding hell didn’t like thinking about it, and he was doing everything in his power to keep from thinking much at all.
He’d had some to drink, and it helped, but the headache wasn’t easing; the headache never eased, these days. Grimacing, without opening his eyes, he reached deep in one pocket for his flask. He found it quick enough, the dented metal chill through his thin gloves. But he didn’t take it; instead, his brows drew together, and his lip curled back from his teeth.
Something else was missing. He fumbled round in that pocket, and found only his flask; he fumbled round in the other and found his matchbox, a couple of ratty hair ties — now he did open his eyes, patting down his coat, reaching into the inside pocket and finding nothing but a handful of pennies.
No flooding wallet. No mistake, neither; wasn’t many places it could be. Blinking, he looked about him on the street. A carriage rattled by, through the mist, disappearing quick. Two nattles, laughing, one young and one old, one with a basket over her arm and one cradling her belly. A big kov, a docker by the looks of him, bustling by with a spring in his step. Tom’s eyes alighted on each, and jumped to the next, helpless.
The suspicious shoe-shiner. Tom jerked his head to look at the lad, and, for the first time, light grey eyes met dark. Tom’s eyes narrowed, and his thin lips twisted.
“Vrunta! Hey, hey!” he growled, just as the lad started moving.
The sound of the voice — too deep, too… old — not me, everything in him screamed, not me, somebody else — sent a jolt through him, so he froze, like a startled deer. By the time he recovered himself, he could see the lad slipping round a corner. “Godsfuckindamnfloodit,” he muttered, “shitshit—” He tossed down the cigarette, ground it out with the heel of his boot, and set off after him, stiff on his aching hip.
His heart hammering in his ears, he managed to keep up with the lad halfway down an alleyway, though he’d nearly slipped in some laoso slush twice, and the shoe-shiner was rabbit-fast. But he lunged and grabbed him by the shoulder, bony thin fingers digging in through his gloves.
“You,” he snapped.
