Consumption of joba seeds and the color of blood directly correlate, my research concludes. The infirmary in the Duster Quarter has documented a substantial number of Duster deaths due to the drug. Though there is no infirmary in the Dredge, my interviews with healers who have made the journey suggest the drug use is an epidemic that is prevalent among Dusters there. Fewer Ghostings seem to rely on the vice, and it is my belief that their time spent with their masters enforces a stronger sense of morality.
—Anoor Elsari, extract from her essay “The Drug Blossoming Among Dusters”
Shards of glass were being hammered into the base of Sylah’s skull. At least that’s what it felt like. She’d tried screaming through the gag, but her throat grew hoarse and her voice wispy. The wardrobe was a mess, although Sylah couldn’t comprehend that it was a wardrobe. It was the size of her mother’s entire villa.
Shoes, suits, scarves, pantaloons had all been knocked off their shelves from her thrashing. Egg was smeared across the walls in clumps. She’d aimed for the most opulent dresses. Dresses that should be hers. Dresses that were hers by right.
She’d learned a lot about her keeper while time had stopped. Once the runelamp in the corner had flickered on two strikes ago—five, six, ten; who knew what time the clockmaster called—she’d surveyed her clothing with interest. The girl liked things that sparkled. Pearlescent glitter, made from the scales of lava fish, clung to flowing gowns and suits. Sylah wondered how many Dusters had lost their lives to the brutal waves of the Marion Sea just to scour the depths for the glittering fish. At least they could rest easy knowing their hard work adorned the dresses of the nobility. Sylah didn’t belong there, among the ghosts of the Dusters.
She was not born to sparkle. She was born to burn.
“Argh.” Sylah threw another clump of eggs with her tied-up hands. The action bruised her shoulder, but it was worth it for the Dusters who were no longer here to fight.
Her anger turned her thoughts to Jond. He’d be worried about her. She needed to get out and sign up for the Aktibar before it was too late. Her stomach suddenly lurched.
Skies above, she needed a joba seed. The little brat had stolen them from her bag. Sylah only realized they were missing after she’d spent a good amount of time rolling on the satchel to coax them out. Now she had a bruised tit, a throbbing head, and a fractured ego. How had that girl bested her? Bloodwerk, of course. How did the girl do it? She was a Duster, wasn’t she?
Sylah didn’t remember deciding to infiltrate the Keep. After Lio had told her the truth, Sylah topped off her intoxication with a bottle of firerum or three. The thought bubbled up out of the depths of her inebriation. She had to see her. The girl who stole her life.
Sylah followed a group of partygoers through the blood scour at the Keep’s gate.
“Next.” The officer was a brute. A brute of the brutish kind.
“Hello.”
“Name?”
“Lylah of Ood-Raynib.” The firerum told her the disguise was brilliant, the joba seeds cackled at her trickery.
“Something funny?”
“Ah, no.” She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress her smile.
Master Brute called behind him, “Rija, you have a Lylah of Ood-Raynib?” There was a pause as Rija rummaged in the back office logs.
“No.”
“First time?” The officer looked at her, but it took Sylah a while to realize he was talking to her.
“Oh. Yes.”
“Okay. Sign your name here.”
A pen. She was holding a pen. She’d only ever signed a cross before.
“That’s…an interesting shape.” The brute of all brutes frowned.
“Thanks.” Maybe the officer wasn’t so bad. Sylah was quite impressed with her squiggle herself. It kind of looked like a flower.
The officer grabbed her wrist, and she was thankful for the long sleeves that hid her guild mark. She lifted her thumb for him.
Master Brute frowned. “We don’t take it from the thumb. It’s too important a finger, especially if you’re in and out of here every day.” Was he suspicious? Probably. “We take it from the third finger.”
Sylah nodded like they were discussing the weather. He had to forcibly pry her finger from her fist. A sharp pinprick followed. She blinked. Red blood blossomed. He waited for it to form a bead and then smeared it next to her signature.
“You can go now.” He waved her away with a shake of his hand. “Next.”
She was in. She expected to feel some sort of relief, redemption, remembrance. But it was just the hum of the joba seed soaring through her veins.