Coldmarch. Daniel Cohen A.

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      ‘Why do you keep saying my name like that?’ Cam asked gently.

      ‘Because it’s not a Jadan name,’ Shilah said with a huff.

      ‘I didn’t choose to be born Noble,’ Cam said, his face strained. ‘But I’m damn sure doing everything I can to make up for it.’

      ‘I know,’ Shilah said softly. ‘But you still don’t know what it’s like to be Jadan. You never will.’

      ‘I’m going to prove it to you,’ Cam said over my shoulder. ‘I’m going to show you that—’

      All of a sudden the corridor ended in a wall with a large smear of dark red cascading from edge to edge. I didn’t need to examine the colour to know that it was blood, and my stomach tightened.

      The Coldmarch was over as soon as it had started.

      My machine was heavy; my foolishness weighed more.

      ‘Mama Jana sent us into a trap,’ I said, still oddly removed from the situation at hand. I stopped short, wondering how long it would be until we were cornered by beasts. I didn’t blame Mama Jana. Life was hard enough in Paphos, even for the lowborn Nobles, and everyone had to do what was necessary to survive. I didn’t blame her. I ached. Even with all the whips and stabbings I’d suffered as a Street Jadan, I had come to find out the worst sting came from betrayal.

      Cam came up next to me, his throat visibly stiffening. ‘Is that blood on the wall?’

      Shilah kept pushing forwards, swinging the lantern.

      ‘She’s probably keeping us down here until they arrive,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘Then the hounds can rip our throats out without any fuss. I bet we’re worth half the Khat’s fortune, and Mama Jana will be set up for life. It’s smart, really.’

      I held the Coldmaker closer to my chest, wondering how I could at least save the machine. Even if I was disposable, the discovery was of the utmost importance. If I had enough time, I could have used the metal corners of the machine itself to dig a proper hole into the clay where it might hide.

      Cam unshouldered all the supplies he was burdened with, shaking the basket of figs. ‘But why would she give us all of this, if it’s just a dead end?’

      ‘It makes sense,’ I said, sniffing my arms and enjoying the scent of life for what might be the last time. Even beneath the rosemusk I could smell ash and fire. ‘Now they can do everything in secret and not worry about rebellion. Like the mistake they made with Matty.’

      ‘For someone who helped crack the secret to Cold,’ Shilah said, turning to me, ‘you’re being quite glum.’ She stabbed a finger against the red on the wall. ‘Alder. Also known as Alder of Langria.’

      I paused, trying to remember how I knew that word. ‘Like the plant Leroi had on his table?’

      Shilah nodded.

      Cam gave a blank-faced stare.

      ‘Look closer,’ Shilah said, beckoning us forwards. ‘This blood spells out a word.’

      Tentatively I stepped forwards and saw that without the cover of shadow the smears did indeed look like letters.

      ‘It says hope,’ Cam read, astonished. ‘How’d you know that stuff wasn’t blood?’

      ‘Because all Jadans know how blood dries,’ Shilah said, pushing open the whole wall with a single thrust and revealing a much larger chamber behind, dust clouding the air.

      ‘Huh,’ I said, my eyes having trouble taking in everything at once.

      Cam nearly dropped the basket of figs. ‘Wow.’

      ‘Hurry,’ Shilah said, letting the wall close behind us and rushing forwards, practically ignoring all the sights before us that demanded admiration. The vast room itself was still encased in long clay walls, but unlike the crawlspace leading up to it, this chamber had overwhelming signs of past travellers.

      The Opened Eye of the Crier was painted everywhere, in all different styles, drawn on with the same red alder as on the entrance wall. Hundreds of Eyes looked over the chamber and gave the room a hopeful air. Small assortments of trinkets and keepsakes sat along the perimeter of the walls, like shrines. Jadans were never allowed to own much, and even though the dust and neglect made it clear that none of my kin had been down here in a decade, the sense of creativity felt alive and electric.

      There were makeshift dolls posed to look as if they were tearing off their slave-uniforms. And little ceramic bowls with gold paste filled the cracks around the shrines. Ragged sleeping blankets of all colours were pinned to the walls, making one broken, yet beautiful tapestry, while whistles carved out of broken cane sat poised and ready to sing. Broken hourglasses were fitted sideways so the sands would never fall, and links of rusted and shattered chains were woven between all the Opened Eyes. I saw a few taskmaster whips – obviously stolen – buried up to the hilt in the floor, as well as statues of ancient animals that must have been painstakingly chipped out of barrack bricks.

      And prayers.

      So many prayers, all carved directly into the walls. Words of thanks and fear and hope and pleas for guidance. They weren’t all written in the common tongue of Paphos, either. There were letters I didn’t recognize, ancient designs with tails and loops and dots studding the bottom lines. I couldn’t stop looking around at the words, stunned by how many Jadans had been down here; all hopeful, preparing to make the journey to paradise.

      Cam plucked a Wisp off one of the shrine tables. ‘Someone left Cold behind.’

      Shilah shrugged. ‘You’d probably give anything you had too, if you knew it might help keep you safe. Sacrifice is a big thing with my people.’

      ‘But Cold?’ Cam asked. ‘Wouldn’t they want to use it? It’s a long way North, and the Sun is even stronger there.’

      Shilah shook her head, as if Cam was missing something obvious.

      ‘What?’ Cam asked, putting the Wisp back down. ‘Is that offensive to touch?’

      Shilah looked at me, her eyes resolute. ‘The Vicaress can read, too. And I guarantee she knows the difference between alder and blood. We need to keep moving.’

      I nodded, but a part of me wanted to read every single prayer down here, and touch every gift, thinking about the Jadans who might have left them behind. They’d challenged the Khat’s Gospels to try their luck in this Coldmarch. They must have believed our people were more than dirt, that we weren’t supposed to be slaves.

      Even without a Coldmaker, they had taken a leap.

      If only they could see the machine in my arms.

      ‘You’re right,’ I said, my hand trembling as I pressed it against my machine. The metal was cool to the touch, even after all that time under Sun.

      Shilah quickly led us through the decorated chamber, which at the end funnelled into another small space. Before we pushed into the mouth of the new tunnel, Shilah stopped and moved her head from СКАЧАТЬ