“Marigold,” Turin barked.
Marigold, that was their name…Sylah recalled.
With no voice and no hands, it was impossible for Ghostings to name themselves something convenient for Dusters and Embers to say. So Dusters and Embers chose names for them, often after animals or flowers, things that the Ghosting servant reminded them of.
Marigold appeared. Their chin was dusted with the shadow of a beard beneath their counterfeit smile.
“Marigold, go and get my stash of joba seeds. The one for customers.”
Turin turned back to Sylah.
“Marigold’s one of my best, you know. They like the whip.” Turin winked, and Sylah dipped her eyes toward her coffee cup. She doubted very much that Marigold liked the whip.
“I’m glad I’ve still got Marigold. I’ve been losing nightworkers to the sleeping sickness for the last two years.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sylah hated small talk.
“Indeed. It’s strange how the sleeping sickness only kills off the weakest of the empire.”
Sylah had nothing to say to that. While it was true that no Duster or Ember seemed to get the sleeping sickness, Turin’s attitude was all too common—that Ghostings were lesser than everyone.
They sat in silence until Marigold returned to the room holding a small packet. Too small a packet, in Sylah’s opinion.
Turin held the packet out to her, and Sylah snatched the joba seeds and put them into her satchel.
“How much is it?”
“Thirty slabs.”
Sylah swallowed her shock with a gulp.
“I don’t—”
Turin smiled. “You have until the tidewind to pay me back.”
Midnight? Surely Turin knew that would be impossible. The feeling of safety the seeds had given her was fading already like the smoke from Turin’s cigar.
“I c…can’t do that.” Sylah handed them back.
Turin closed Sylah’s hand over the packet of seeds.
“Why don’t you fight in the Ring tonight? Surely you could make some money that way?”
Sylah understood now. Turin always placed her bets on Sylah. But she wasn’t due to fight for another week. She’d have to go see Loot…
She nodded weakly.
“Thirty slabs, Sylah, before midnight. Don’t want to get caught in the tidewind now, do you?”
Sylah shook her head and slipped a joba seed out of the packet. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she didn’t pay the maiden back. The tidewind was the perfect cover-up for any murders committed in the Dredge. But that was a worry for another time that the anticipation of her next joba seed smothered.
“May Anyme protect you.” The maiden of the house waved her away with a blessing, the cigar smoke, like an extended talon, following her out.
Now creaking floorboards and the patter of bare feet were the only sounds in the maiden house. Ghostings crossed Sylah’s path in diaphanous fabrics. Bandages, like flags of conquered armies, littered their skin—tokens of the type of clientele Turin catered to.
Coffee and bile and anger raged in Sylah’s throat. That’s the thing with having transparent blood.
No one could see you bleed.