Lori Lee - Gates of Thread and Stone

DEATH LIVED INa glass tower at the center of the White Court. I could see the tower from anywhere in the city. It cut the skyline like a blade. Death—she probably had a real name—was Kahl Ninu’s right hand and his personal executioner. Or, at least, that’s what the rumors said. I didn’t really care if they were true so long as it wasn’t my head on the chopping block.

The fact that the Kahl’s executioner lived in the most impressive building in the city wasn’t the only reason the White Court unsettled me. I never went any farther than the barracks along the inner wall, but I could see the Court’s elaborate Grays dashing through the cobblestone streets, some with monstrous forms, their hulking bodies big enough to carry three riders at once.

The strap of my messenger bag dug into my shoulder, and I hoisted it up as I turned right, toward the gate. Twenty-foot walls separated the White Court from the rest of the city. Only people with the right permissions could enter or leave.

“See you tomorrow, Kai.” The Watchman on duty waved me out. As a mail carrier, I had access during work hours.

Once through the gate, the tension left my body. The North District—fondly nicknamed the Alley by some and not so fondly called Purgatory by others—was nothing like the White Court. The buildings here were plain stone and brick, ugly and brown and comforting in their uniformity.

I stepped off the curb into the gutter to avoid a glittering patch of broken glass on the sidewalk. A shattered window sat in the crumbling wall of the building right above the mess, jagged shards still clinging to the frame. As I turned the corner, I glanced at a poster stuck to a dented lamppost. It was one of only a half-dozen posters in this particular neighborhood—no point advertising to people with no credits.

Today, the poster displayed a half-naked man and woman enticing people to visit them down at the docks. I snorted. Last week, it had featured some crap about the wondrous city of Ninurta. Really smart companion advertising there. Who were they trying to kid?

But, hey, as long as Kahl Ninu left me and my brother alone, he could do whatever the drek he wanted.

A shoulder smacked mine on the sidewalk. I didn’t bother checking my pockets. They were already empty. But sometimes I left little notes in them I thought might amuse a pickpocket: “Try me again tomorrow. I forgot my diamonds at home” or “Might have better luck with that guy,” alongside a scribbled arrow.

Well, they amused me anyway.

The sidewalk grew narrower here. Some boys from school loitered around the next corner, their loud voices carrying through the ruptured street. One of them finished off an apple and then lobbed the core at a passing Gray—the gleaming form of a stag with curved horns. Bound for the White Court. The Court Grays were easy to discern from the Alley Grays, which were dirty and rusted.

The stag threw back its head and the rider shouted, but the boys’ laughter drowned out his words.

I avoided eye contact and gripped my messenger bag closer against my side. On my right was a row of shops. Striped awnings dangled from the wooden supports; and posters for the latest underground club, the kind my brother didn’t approve of, plastered the windows.

I stepped over a lumpy brown stain on the ground and cut through an alley, taking the shortcut to the District Mail Center. Laundry hung on either side of the walls, while rusty pipes crawled up the bricks like veins. I kept to the middle of the alley; the walls looked slick with something green and possibly moving.

Up ahead, a young woman with a black-and-white Mohawk leaned against the rungs of a broken fire escape. The metal creaked on flaking hinges as she shifted against it. She stared down at her gray boots, her hands buried in the pockets of her sweater. I walked briskly.

As I passed, I gave her the barest of nods. Just to be polite. Reev always said to be polite even if no one else cared.

The girl lunged, shoving me up against the alley wall. I gasped as we hit the bricks, my bag cushioning the impact. I threw my arm up to deflect her, but she knocked it aside.

Strong fingers, gritty with dirt, clamped around my neck. A clammy palm pressed into my collarbone, and a sharp edge dug into my ribs.

If my tunic ripped, I would deck her. My tunic was drab gray, worn thin at the elbows and with partially unraveled loops stitched along the hems—nothing special, except that Reev had made it for me.

“Bit far from the White Court, aren’t you?” The girl sneered, her lips stained bright red. “How much you think someone’ll pay to get you back?”

I stopped struggling. What? Laughter bubbled up my throat. Okay, this was new.

The fingers around my neck loosened, and the girl jerked a bit. “What’s so funny?”

“I live in the Labyrinth,” I said flatly.

If the North District was Purgatory then the Labyrinth was Hell. The Labyrinth was what we called the East Quarter, specifically the maze of stacked freight containers–turned–homes, so closely packed together that it had transformed into a city within the city. Operating by its own unspoken rules, the Labyrinth sat about as low as you could on the social ladder—which, in Ninurta, was saying something.

“No one’s going to pay a credit for me.” Which was a lie, because Reev would pay every credit he’d saved for us to get away from the dripping metal walls and claustrophobia of the Labyrinth. He’d give up even more than that for me, and I could never let that happen.

“I saw you leave the White Court,” the girl said, her sweaty hand sliding against my skin. Her nervousness didn’t reassure me; it only made her more unpredictable.

“Look closer,” I said, and glanced down at the messenger strap on my shoulder.

I brushed aside my long black hair, and the girl focused on the yellow bird sewn into the old canvas. It was the District Mail Center’s logo—a quaint bit of symbolism about flying and freedom, which was deeply ironic and something I didn’t think about for fear my eyes would roll clear to the Outlands.

The moment the girl realized what she was looking at, her body grew rigid and her already pale face went ashen.

“W-well,” the girl began, “you—I—” She shouted a curse. The knife at my ribs dug harder; I sucked in my breath. The girl swore again.

“Are we done then?” I felt kind of bad for her. She couldn’t have been much older than me. Maybe eighteen or nineteen, though most kids around here had broken into their first shop by the time they were five. Didn’t know if that was true for me—I couldn’t remember anything from before I turned eight.

I had to get going or I’d be late returning my bag to the DMC. My route was timed, and I couldn’t afford to lose any credits.

The girl’s hand tightened around my neck. “You’re pretty,” she said, her gaze flicking across my face. “And those eyes are something else.”

I groaned. Here we go.

“Bet you’d get me a good price at the docks.”

I had heard enough.

I reached out with my mind, feeling for the threads of time that flowed around us. They were everywhere, if you had the ability to see, intertwining the people, the weathered buildings, the stones beneath my feet. They moved everything forward in constant motion. Always forward. I imagined my fingers dragging the fibers, making them catch and slow.