“Seventh strike!” The clockmaster called out into the Dredge.
“Seventh strike…”
“Seventh strike…”
The murmur moved through the crowd with a practiced chant, ensuring everyone knew the time.
“What time is it?” Sylah asked suddenly, struck by the panic that she needed to be somewhere.
“Seventh strike, girl.” The griot’s voice churned like gravel.
She weaved through the Maroon muttering to herself, “Nice chat, got to go.”
The Ring was in the northernmost tip of the Dredge, where Loot’s Gummers reigned. She was at least half a strike away. She hated being late, it meant skimming across the rooftops and you never knew when you’d end up knee-deep in someone’s shit.
Plumbing in the Dredge was not as sophisticated as in the Ember Quarter, or even the Duster Quarter. Bloodwerk runes, when they worked, pumped the sewage upward to septic tanks on the roofs. It had been a project that a Warden of Duty had spearheaded a few decades ago in the hopes of “clearing up” the Dredge. Sylah wasn’t sure that moving shit closer to the sky counted as clearing up.
She climbed up the nearest ladder and began hopping across the tightly packed villas. Occasionally she came across a roof that was too decrepit, and she’d have to make her way down and through the bustling street parties that had started after the Descent, before making her way back up.
When the Ring came into view, Sylah jumped down from the rooftops and shook her pantaloons. At one time her trousers, woven by the old grandmothers in the Duster Quarter, had been patterned in blues and reds. Over time layers of dirt and sand embedded their way into the woven fabric, and now they were covered in sewage. At least she’d only fallen in one septic tank. Thankfully, the smell of firerum around the Ring was so strong it singed her nostrils and drowned out the smell.
A small bonfire burned by the side of the crowd, all waiting for the combat to begin. The audience was bigger than normal, and rowdier from the brief freedom of the holiday, but Sylah didn’t have any nerves. This was what she had been trained to do since she was two years old.
What would Jond say if he saw her now? She imagined his jaw going slack as he watched her sell her skills for entertainment. His mouth would twist with righteousness. She could feel the phantom of his disapproval lace up her spine.
“Fuck you, Jond. You left me,” Sylah whispered to herself. The anger caused by Jond’s betrayal eclipsed the shame she felt. Anger she could use.
She slithered through the crowd, nodding to the odd audience member here and there. There were lots of regulars, and some irregulars—all drawn to the Ring for the thrill of playing the odds. She felt them assessing her, their greedy eyes calculating their chances. Sylah spotted amber eyes she knew. The golden hue was unmistakably Turin’s.
“You’re late.” Turin’s dress was as voluptuous as what was in it. It was richly woven, with waterfalls of fabric echoing the Ember court fashion.
“Nice boobies.” The words were out of Sylah’s mouth before she could stop them. They were, after all, piled right there in front of her. Thankfully, Turin laughed, a breathy sort of laugh that set Sylah both on edge and off it.
“Sounds like you finished the rest of my stash.”
“No.”
Turin winked. “Hope it doesn’t hinder you in the Ring. I’m betting big tonight.”
“Good, I’m planning to win.” Sylah swaggered past Turin’s circumference of lace, toward Loot. He spotted her and smiled. He’d brought his stool and was sitting by the side of the Ring watching the bets exchange hands. Fayl stood within range of Loot, the two of them aware of the space around each other, while surveying the crowd. Loot twirled the crime guild token through his long fingers.
“I know, I’m late,” Sylah said as she circled the charcoal border that gave the Ring its name. It was drawn into the compacted ground every night, fifty handspans wide, just enough room to fight in. One-eared Lazo was standing to the side of Loot, his mass of muscle enough to stop anyone in the street. As his name suggested, he only had the one ear. He lost the other in a fishing accident, of all things, where he grew up on the coast. Sylah told him more than once to doctor the story to something more sinister. A “fishing wire getting caught in your hair” didn’t have the same ring to it as “fighting off a rabid desert monkey with a knife.”
“Indeed, you are late. And drunk and probably on drugs.” Loot was still smiling, but the anger carried under his breath.
“I can still win.” Sylah matched his whisper.
“Well, don’t, lose this round.”
“The first one? Who’ll bet on me after that?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, because we have an agreement, Sylah. Fifty slabs a night whether you win or lose.”
She hated this charade. “Fine.” It was enough to pay off her debt to Turin, and buy another day or two’s worth of joba seeds.
“Don’t question me again.” His smile was brittle as he cast his eyes to the crowd and stood up.
She felt the echo of Jond’s disappointment crawl back up her spine. No one threatens one of the Stolen. Not the Embers, not the wardens, and especially not Loot.