James Clemens - Shadowfall

“It looks like a deep scratch,” Margarite said, coming to the aid of her best friend. Though Margarite’s family was from the opposite end of the Nine Lands, she could have been Laurelle’s twin with her sleek fall of black hair, snowy skin, and full lips. She even dressed in the same finery of blue velvet and white stockings. “We should fetch Healer Paltry.”

Though Laurelle’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes moist with tears, she waved such a thought away, struggling for a dismissive demeanor. “I’m not a piddling firstfloorer.” She bent and ripped her stocking, which earned a shocked cry from Sissup, who was not from such a rich family. Laurelle used the snatch of lace to bind her wound, which had almost stopped bleeding already.

It truly was not a deep scratch. Pupp had barely nicked her.

Laurelle inspected her handiwork, then nodded and stood.

A smatter of applause rewarded her effort. “She’s so brave,” Jenine murmured to Dart as Laurelle left with Margarite in tow. The nigglish prank on Dart had been all but forgotten.

Almost…

Matron Grannice appeared at the doorway, ringing a small bell. “To your classes now, gentle lasses! No dawdling. Don’t keep the mistresses and masters waiting.” She worked down the two rows, adding her usual litany of warnings. “Sharyn, make sure you keep your ankles covered when climbing the stairs. Bella, if you stain your petticoat with ink again, I’ll make a washerwoman out of you. And Hessy…”

The scolding continued, trailed by a chant of, “Yes, mum,” as the girls fled the commons, heading to the morning teachings.

Dart held her breath, staring at her laden plate.

Matron Grannice stopped behind her. Though Dart kept her back turned, she sensed the sour look. “Why are you always such a stubborn and willful child?”

From under lowered brows, Dart glanced to the door and saw Laurelle standing there, staring back. At her side, Margarite waggled fingers toward Dart, smiling at her predicament.

“Answer me,” Grannice barked.

Dart met Laurelle’s eyes and mumbled, “I don’t know, mum.”

“And why do you always speak as if you’re carrying a cheekful of nuts?”

“Sorry, mum.” Dart watched Laurelle nod back to her. Satisfied that the prank would not be laid at her feet, Laurelle left with Margarite, but not before Dart noted a glimpse of something deeper in the other girl’s eyes. It was not satisfaction, nor shame. It made no sense, but Dart could not dismiss what she had seen. Always off to the side, Dart had learned to read the subtleties in another’s features: the narrowing of an eye, a pursed lip, a flush of color on a cheek. But what she saw in Laurelle still made no sense.

Why would Laurelle envy me?

Matron Grannice interrupted her reverie. “It seems there is only one way to straighten this arrogant bent. And that is to learn from those even more willful than you.”

“Mum?”

“It’s off to the rookery with you! Perhaps a morning of scooping droppings, scrubbing floors, and spreading hay will temper your demeanor, young lass.”

“But classes?” Dart sat up straighter. “We’re to practice for the moon’s ceremony.”

Grannice let out an exasperated sigh. “You can practice with the ravens.” Dart’s ear was grabbed and she was hauled to her feet. “You know where the pails and brooms and brushes are. Now off with you.”

Dart hurried from the room with a rush of her skirts. She saw the last few of the other girls heading down the stairs, giggling and laughing, clutching books to their bosoms. They were fifth- and sixthfloorers heading down to the courtyard and classes in the neighboring towers. She watched them disappear, then faced the spiraling stair that led upward.

“To me, Pupp,” she mumbled and began the long climb toward the rookery in the roost atop the tower. Her companion clambered past her, trotting a few steps ahead. The flow of his molten body seemed agitated. Pupp was clearly excited by the adventure.

They climbed the fourth and fifth floors, then past the levels that quartered the mistresses and matrons and healing wards, then up past levels vacant and dusty. At last, she reached a door at the top of the tower.

Beyond it lay the rookery.

Pupp nosed the solid squallwood door, then passed through it as if it were mere smoke. The only material that ever seemed to thwart Pupp was stone.

Continuing after her friend, Dart tugged the latch and hauled the way open for herself. She had to lean out with her slight body to fight the door’s weight and ancient hinges. The door squealed open, setting the ravens inside to flapping on their hundred perches and nests. Screeched complaints echoed across the cavernous stone chamber.

She ducked through and pulled the door behind her, leaving it cracked open to allow the outer hall’s torchlight to filter in. The only other illumination came from the twenty guano-stained windows high up the walls. The remainder of the room was cloaked in gloom. Large eyes reflected the meager light, stared down at her. The birds did not like their slumber disturbed.

When not aloft, carrying messages, the residents here kept busy at night, keeping the Conclave grounds clear of mice, rats, and voles. The birds were also a source of eggs and meat for the kitchens.

Crinkling her nose at the stinging smell of the place, she crossed to a small cupboard inset against one wall. She would stink like the rookery all day. Inside the cupboard were buckets, brushes, and brooms in their usual places.

She tied her skirt around her knees and set to sweeping the old hay and dried droppings. It was mindless work.

As she swept, Pupp chased after the broom’s straw bristles, biting playfully, his razored jaws passing harmlessly through the bristles. Still, his determined efforts drew a smile from her.

“Stupid dog…” she mumbled with a grin.

With the floor finally swept, Dart still had to give the planks a good scrubbing on her hands and knees, then break one of the stacked bales of hay and spread fresh straw as she had done so often before.

Wiping her brow, she crossed to the corner pump and cranked the plunge handle. It was hard work drawing water up from the midtower cistern. As she labored, something warm and wet slapped against her cheek. Scowling, she wiped it away.

Raven shite.

She glanced up toward the rafters. “Thank you for your blessing, Lord Raven.” With a shake of her head, she set to the pump again, hauling its handle up and down. Sweat trickled down her back. The day was warming out of morning toward midday.

She could only imagine her fellow thirdfloorers practicing their curtsies and bows for the ceremony, learning the proper responses, and reciting the Litany of Nine Graces. She sang out as she pumped, naming each Grace as she pulled and its property as she pushed.

“ Blood… to open the way, seed or menses to bless, sweat to imbue, tears to swell, saliva to ebb, phlegm to manifest, yellow bile to gift, and black to take it all away.”

As she finished, water flowed from the spigot into the bucket. She allowed it to overflow. She’d need an entire bucket to wash the floor.

With her pail full, she straightened. Hot and moist from her effort, she crossed to a ladder and pushed it toward one of the high windows.

Just a little breeze and a bit of freshened air… then I’ll get back to the chore.

She climbed the ladder. Once at the opening, she shoved her head through. Only now did she notice how much her eyes and nose burned from the reek of the rookery. She took deep, gulping breaths.

All of Chrismferry lay sprawled below her. The city spread in walls, canals, and roofs all the way to the horizon. It was split in halves by the mighty Tigre River, shining silver in the sunlight. It was said that the city was so wide that it took a man on foot ten days to cross from one end to the other. There was a common response when one spoke about its vastness: The world is the city, and the city is the world.