“I think I know someone who might know someone.” Sylah’s mind was whirling. This was going to be tricky.
“Oh, really? Are they a smuggler? Do they know the Warden of Crime?” She was practically bouncing up and down, her eyes gleaming. “I read a story about him once and asked my mother why the wardens didn’t arrest him. She told me he was more valuable alive.” She frowned, a memory rippling through her until a greedy smile pushed it away. “Is it true he unified all the crime lords in the empire? I heard that he killed those that opposed him by poisoning their coffee.”
“Tea.” The correction came out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Oh, Ending Fire. You do know the Warden of Crime? Was he the one to train all the assassins at the assassin school you went to?”
Sylah ground her teeth together. Anoor had the ability to turn every lesson into a farce. “No. No questions, remember. Can we get back to it?”
Anoor pouted.
“I suppose today we can practice with paper and charcoal. Oh!” She held a hand to her mouth. “I forgot I need to write out the basic runes five hundred times by tomorrow for Master Nuhan. You must help me.” Anoor handed some paper and charcoal to Sylah, thinking nothing of it. The paper was thick, soft, creamy, weighty. Not traded in dark corners of the Dredge. The charcoal was shaved to a point, not something found on the floor between some rubble.
“What are you looking at?” Anoor asked. Sylah didn’t realize she had been staring at the paper and smiling.
“We’ll start with the basics, the four foundational runes—”
“How did you remove my gag without another bloodwerk rune?”
“Ah, good question,” Anoor said, smiling despite the interruption. “Blood recognizes blood.”
“Huh?” Now that threw a desert fox into the chicken’s den.
“Because I was using my blood, which allowed me to release the binds.”
But it wasn’t her blood. How could it be? She was a Duster, wasn’t she?
“Do you want a notebook so you can write this down?” Anoor asked, pulling Sylah from her musings.
“I just prefer to, you know, listen. Take it in.” It was illegal for a Duster to write, so none of the Stolen had ever learned the basics. Reading was taught in Duster schools, through Ember-prescribed texts, but not writing. Writing was an offense punishable by ripping.
Reading wasn’t an easy hobby either. Books were rare, unless you were Loot, who had the means to scour the empire through his network of Gummers and spies. His library was the only one on the other side of the river. You could buy zines for a slab a page at the market, but Sylah couldn’t stand the hyperbolic nature of the storytelling. She found the optimistic narrative and obvious plotlines mundane. Anoor clearly did not.
“Okay.” Anoor frowned, then launched back into her lecture.
By the end of the two strikes Sylah could draw out the wobbly outlines of Gi, Ba, Ru, and Kha. She found the charcoal uncomfortable to hold, but once she approached it logically, like she would a weapon, she grew accustomed to the shape.
The runes would be used as a weapon one day, used by Jond to break down the empire. Sylah hid her cruel smile. Jond would be disappointed that Sylah hadn’t signed up for the Aktibar, but he’d forgive her when she brought him the missing link in his success. Bloodwerk.
This was what Papa meant by purpose.It filled her in a different way than joba seeds, more tangible, fiercer.
“Well, that’s a hundred repetitions, that will just have to do for Master Nuhan for now.” Anoor cracked a yawn and stumbled to bed. Sylah’s pallet was next to Anoor’s ostentatious four-poster. The pallet was smaller, cobbled together with what Gorn could procure under duress, but it was the plushest bed she’d ever seen. She desperately wanted to slip under the covers, but it had been nearly four days since Jond or her mother had heard from her. She needed to get to them.
Sylah waited until Anoor was whimpering softly in her sleep. The runelamp she insisted on leaving on all night cast her in a warm glow. Sylah slipped out the bedroom door and tiptoed across the hallway.
She made it past Gorn’s door before she heard the door squeak behind her.
“Sylah?” Gorn appeared. It occurred to Sylah she must sleep fully clothed, her dark red pinafore still unwrinkled.
“I was just, erm, looking for the kitchen, felt a little hungry.”
“The fresh meat and vegetables didn’t fill you up?” The question was dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll show you the way tomorrow. It’s late now. Return to the bedchamber.” Sylah clenched her fists and smiled lightly.
“Of course.” She retraced her steps. Tomorrow was another day.