1889, Red Court’s Reign, Kunlun City

Sparrow’s Orphanarium

“You scared of a little mouse?”

Castor Lin and Elroy Lin were up to their usual hijinks. They were chasing around one of the new girls with a dead mouse by the tail. For the two dunderheads—it was what constituted entertainment around the Orphanarium.

Fang Xin, or merely Xin to the rest of the orphans, watched from beneath the kitchen entrance’s awning as the sun set over Kunlun City. He swept dust from the tiled ground of the Orphanarium’s courtyard into a pan. The broom in his hands had seen far better days, and the straw bristles of the head were in dire need of replacing.

Not that Madam Sparrow, the head of the Orphanarium, would fork over the pocket change required to do so.

Luckily for the new girl, Madam Sparrow had evidently been drawn outside by the commotion, because a familiar shrill scream called for peace and order. Xin had learned through his many years in the Orphanarium that it was best to let the adults sort issues out between the children. It’d taken Xin multiples black eyes, bruised knuckles, and swollen lips to learn the lesson. He was a stubborn orphan—a trait they all desperately needed to make it through the misery of their daily life.

The new girl would learn soon too, as they all had. A dead mouse was nothing compared to years of the same tasteless gruel and questionably dried jerky.

“Enough from you two!” Madam Sparrow shrieked, marching across the courtyard from the sliding doors to her personal room. “Cease this foolishness at once! Do you boys have no decency whatsoever?”

The twins stopped at once. The elder of the two, by approximately fifteen minutes, dropped the mouse and shuffled his feet in an attempt to hide it from view. But their fates were already sealed.

The new girl, and rather dramatically, fell to her knees. Clearly, she was accustomed to a finer sort of living. Tears glistened at the corners of her doe eyes. Her pink robes didn’t have any patches and even had a flower embroidered on the skirt.

Xin didn’t see her staying long before a hapless couple would come knocking. Pretty girls, especially orphans from the middle-strata of the city, rarely saw a full year in the Orpharium before adoption. For them, it was a bad dream, for Xin, it’d been his entire life so far.

Castor Lin, who’d dropped the mouse, recognizable by the part in his hair, cringed under the verbal serenade of Madam Sparrow. Xin smirked. The twins were hardly friends of his, and they’d often tormented him during their early years in the Orphanarium. But Xin’s smugness didn’t last long.

Madam Sparrow soon inextricably turned her attention on Xin, pointing at him with a bony, gnarled finger. “And you,” she hissed. “You sat there watching this madness unfold? And you were showing so much improvement in behavior, Fang Xin. Is this how a child of mine behaves? Standing idly by while a maiden in distress is tormented at the hands of no-good scoundrels? It’s time you start acting like an adult.”

What she meant by adult was really only thirteen-years-of-age. It’d been nearly three years since he first entered the Orphanarium. Practically a lifetime for a child.

“One can’t expect to become an outstanding adult without finding the courage to do what’s right when there’s nothing but wrongness in the world,” Madam Sparrow dictated. Xin thought she kind of looked like a bird, with her hawk-ish nose and dark, beady eyes.

It brought a smile to his lips.

He quickly frowned, recalling an incident where his interference in a similar conflict was met with collective punishment for everyone involved, including, unsurprisingly enough, him.

“Sorry?” Xin offered, scratching his head. “I’ll do better next time.”

The path of least resistance was often the right choice, a fact of life he’d learned from the Orphanarium. And it could’ve been worse. She could’ve caned them all.

Xin’s fists, clenched at his sides, went unnoticed by Madam Sparrow. Memories of beatings were quick to sour his mood. He liked to think of his anger as a well-tuned construct, let out when necessary, and concealed when inconvenient.

And currently, beneath the full fury and scrutiny of Madam Sparrow, his temper could not be allowed to bubble above the placid surface of a regretful orphan.

“You lot,” she said, redirecting her focus back on the twins, “are to be punished by forgoing dinner for two nights. Perhaps that might teach you to bully your fellow students in place of finishing your chores.”

The odd thing about Madam Sparrow was that she’d never refer to the orphans as… well, orphans. She’d call them demon dogs, or ankle-biters, or students, or even children when approached in a good mood, but never orphans.

Xin stared at the dust gathered in his pan, wondering if he could somehow inch his way inside the kitchen and be rid of the affair. But Madam Sparrow’s narrowed eyes locked in on Xin like prey to a falcon. Faint scars were visible below her eyelids—a telltale sign of flesh-weaving, and a rather poorly done operation at that.

“Your punishment is to assist the Priest in transcribing more of his…” Madam Sparrow said, her pale face, kept in a perpetual middle-age by flesh-weavers, wrinkled in distaste, “…those awful tall tales of his.”

Xin nodded hesitantly, striving his best to look as if Heavens themselves had just fallen on his shoulders. The punishment meant spending time away from the other orphans and the sun and in the library of the Priest. To Madam Sparrow, who looked upon all mentions of the supernatural as ill-fated, it was a punishment second only to a good-old-fashioned caning of the calves.

“And,” Madam Sparrow added, clearly enjoying watching Xin squirm, “escort our little Rui on morning trips to the grocer. It hasn’t been as safe lately,” She gestured to the new girl, whose tears had stopped flowing, but was now staring at Xin through a pair of wide, round eyes. “Now, you are all dismissed.”

The Twin Lins slunk back in the direction of the orphan’s shared living quarters, grumbling under their breaths. It was a difficult thing to go without a warm meal, and the watery gruel provided in the mornings hardly sated a growing boy’s appetite. Dinner was the only real source of comfort for many of the orphans. Xin made a mental note to save some scraps from his new morning grocery runs for the twins.

He liked to think of it as a small protest against Madam Sparrow, one that wouldn’t lead to a caning or abject expulsion from the Orphanarium.

Seeing as there wasn’t long before dinner, Xin approached the front of the Orphanarium’s courtyard and walked through the doorway of the old tower. He was annoyed to see Rui follow after him, but decided against shooing her away. A new orphan would need friends, or at least people she could consider friends amongst the other children.

Xin wasn’t keen on getting close to her. Not while she was prime adoption material for any of the dozens of barren couples or occasional eccentric craftsmen looking to pass down their trade to an apprentice with no ties.

He climbed up the ladder of the tower, the action as natural as walking on solid ground for him. A quick look over the raised loft at the top of the building revealed Rui, who was following him up the ladder, albeit pale, trembling, and at a snail’s pace.

For the moment, he ignored her, enjoying the peace of his sanctuary. The loft was his home, with a burlap sack in the corner that acted as his pillow when their shared living quarters grew too stuffy with the breathing of a dozen other children.

Xin looked out over the broad window of the tower. The sprawling towers and buildings of Kunlun City spread out before him, broken up in halves by the Yellow Axis River that originated from the very peak of the city, the Palace.

Centuries of human settlement had all but tamed the once mythical mountain range, the earth buried beneath miles of arched platforms and meandering promenades. In between platforms, towers with eaves roofs rose from the depths, breaking through the clouds along with the curved hulls of airships.

The Orphanarium was situated at the outskirts of the city at the Base District. Around them, reality reared its ugly head. The long shadow of the tower fell across the grimey street across from their courtyard. Rusted constructs, metallic pack horses and mules, carted wagons full of stinking fish from the Shadowless Sea, which wrapped around the eastern side of Kunlun City, the Yellow Axis River feeding into its great watery mass.

Xin often went down to the Outer Port and watched the seemingly infinite horizon for a certain ship.

“It’s beautiful,” a girl’s soft voice said behind Xin.

Xin glanced behind to see Rui climbing over the ladder, staring in awe at the view of the city. He’d shown some of the other orphans, but they thought the view dull and common. Why marvel over the city they’d spent their entire lives within?

Rui’s gaze appreciated the expansive cityline before ending on Xin’s face. “Why didn’t you do anything?” she asked, pouting. “You just sat there and watched. That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

Xin shrugged. “You’ve come to a strange place if you were expecting gentlemanly behavior,” he said, leaning against the window sill, one leg dangling from the edge. Rui breathed sharply at the sight, nervous. “This is an Orphanarium. Not the Palace.”

Rui looked off to the side, looking even more nervous. “Be that as it may,” she said, scowling, “it was the right thing to help me.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“By whose standard?” Xin asked, gazing over the street at an urchin being beaten by a hired tough with a truncheon. The tough left the urchin in the ditch, spitting on his eerily-still body. A pick-pocket who wasn’t quite quick enough, Xin decided. “They weren’t hurting you, not in the usual way, at least. You’re a girl, there was nothing to worry about.”

Xin watched the shadow of the tower grow longer as day fell behind the Orphanarium. Move, Xin thought. Move you bastard. You’ll die if you just lay there.

“We can always choose to be better,” Rui said, approaching the window. From her view, she wouldn’t see the urchin or the filth. She’d only see the distant city and its mechanical wonders and floating airships. “My mother used to tell me that.”

Xin saw the urchin twitch, first an arm, then his leg, before he crawled up out of the ditch, revealing the ill-gotten gains of his endeavor. He stuffed a money pouch into his dirty sleeve before shambling off.

“Don’t bother if this is your way of getting me to watch out for you,” Xin said, swinging his leg back around from the window sill and rising from his perch, “Madam Sparrow already made sure of it. Get some rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

Rui scoffed. “It won’t be a long-term arrangement,” she said. “Rest assured, my guardians will be coming for me soon. You’d be rewarded generously for making my time here as comfortable as possible. This is all some sort of mistake. I don’t really belong here with people like you.” She paused, face turning rigid like a statue. “No offense meant.”

“Dinner!” a woman’s voice called from the now-dark courtyard.

“I’m sure,” Xin said, taking one last long look out the window. A triple-ballooned airship descended from the heights of Kunlun City, heading in the direction of the horizon of the Shadowless Sea. He closed his eyes and prayed for a safe voyage. With the airship, went a part of Xin across the never-ending ocean.

Within the dining hall, Madam Shrew, a quiet, mousey woman who carried herself with an almost prey-like energy, sat adjacent to Madam Sparrow, who, like usual, was at the head of the long, wooden dining table. Set upon it were platters of fried pork fritters and a pot of watery gruel.

When Xin and Rui entered the hall and made their way to their respective seats, Madam Sparrow glowered at the two. She wasn’t fond of tardiness to say the least.

Noticeably, three seats were noticeably empty throughout the duration of dinner. The dozen or so children sitting around the table hardly cared. It only meant more for them.

Xin could imagine the siblings, stewing in their bunks in the living quarters, devising the next plan to discreetly give Madam Sparrow her comeuppance.

The last chair belonged to the Priest. He was an oddity of a man, a foreigner, strangely enough, who was more interested in chronicling folk stories than eating or helping out with any of the many chores around the Orphanarium. Still, Xin had seen him provide Madam Sparrow with ample silver for his lodging, so he figured the foreigner was more than exempt from the usual duties.

When the last of dinner was divided up between the orphans, Madam Sparrow rose from her seat, signaling for everyone’s attention with the usual scowl. Xin leaned forward, interested. It wasn’t often the aging director addressed the whole of the Orphanarium. She liked to corner her prey while they were alone and most vulnerable.

“The Heavens have blessed us with another full meal,” she said, clapping her hands together in a show of reverence. Adjacently, Madam Shrew appeared miffed. She’d cooked the entire meal alone. “I would like to discuss a few matters before we adjourn for the night, my young students. I’m sure many of you have noticed that guests have been coming and going from our courtyard these last few days. We are overjoyed to announce that in two days, several established and esteemed figures from Kunlun City are visiting to seek out new apprentices for their various and respectable trades.”

Xin sat up in his chair, intrigued. He quickly cut the chaff from the wheat of Madam Sparrow’s announcement, the components of his mind working at a mad dog’s pace to comprehend the news.

“I expect everyone to remain on their best behavior,” Madam Sparrow said, singling out Xin, her nose centered pointedly on him. “You all understand that the most prosperous path from our halls is to acquire the foundations of a respectable trade.” She turned toward the right half of the table, occupied exclusively by girls. “And perhaps some of the visitors might have sons that need marrying. Everyone will carry on as befitting of their roles. Are we clear?”

Everyone’s eyes widened with the possibility of an apprenticeship… or a husband of respectable origins.

Xin’s future, which he’d never particularly looked forward to, suddenly seemed so much brighter. If an established merchant with a fleet of ships took notice of him, perhaps he could work his way up to a voyage across the Shadowless Sea.

“Now,” Madam Sparrow said, waving the orphans away, “everyone go about their evening duties.”

Chairs scraped as some of the children gathered dishes in their arms to the soaking trough pushed up beside the door to the kitchen. The rest headed out of the hall and into the courtyard, yawing into their hands.

“Xin,” Madam Sparrow said, freezing Xin in his tracks. He turned toward her, just short of the door to the courtyard. He could feel the evening breeze on the back of his unruly mop of dark hair. “I believe I mentioned to you about the Priest requiring a child with keen eyes this morning. Go on and help him, won’t you?”

Xin sighed. It would mean working late into the night and still getting up early to help Rui with her chores. “Understood,” he said, smiling. “I’ll get right on it.”

“That’s a good child,” Madam Sparrow said with approval. When orphans acquiesced to her will, it was a sign her dutiful preaching was making headway in fixing the attitudes of the disparate, left-over children of Kunlun City. “Well, go on now.”

Xin left the dining hall and parted ways with the stream of sleepy children, heading toward the Priest’s living quarters which also doubled as his personal library. He let himself through the sliding door.

The Priest sat at a wooden desk, a metal owl perched atop a stand at one end. He was a foreigner to Kunlun City, and the Restored Dynasty altogether. His eyes were bright-green, a rare shade even amongst Alteronians.

A lantern dangling from the low-hanging ceiling cast a fiery orange glow across the Priest’s quarters.

He wore a Western-style shirt from a distant island known as Alteron. His stiff collar was left open just enough to reveal a hint of a storm of tattooed dragons across his broad chest. Despite his holy occupation, he looked more like a soldier than a real priest, having first entered the Orphanarium with a pistol and Western sabre at his hips. All for my own protection, he’d declared, from the unholy forces of the night, my dears.

Usually, he wore a peaked, tricorn cap over his dark curly locks, but when inside and poring over old documents, he wore it tied back in a loose ponytail. “Ah,” the Priest said, finally noticing Xin, who shuffled awkwardly in place. He spoke in heavily accented yet shockingly passable Dynastic Speech. “Madam Sparrow picked well. You were exactly who I had in mind for this job.”

Xin stopped himself from swelling up with pride. He was supposed to be annoyed. His job would likely take all night.

“How can I assist?” Xin asked. He could already imagine the pages of Dynastic Scrawl he’d have to transcribe by hand. It made him wish the Priest would just buy one of the new typing constructs popular back in his homeland. “Madam Sparrow wasn’t very specific with what I was to do. And I’m nowhere near scholarly fluency.”

“Your task won’t take long,” the Priest replied with a wink. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from your date tomorrow morning.”

Xin frowned. How did the Priest even know about that? The owl construct, its feathers cast from bronze and its circular faceplate deafening the sound of clicking gears, stared at Xin curiously, head cocked. Xin found his answer. The owl was a third-strata construct at least. The complexity of its Scripting, not to mention the cost of the Mechaniks, the physical components that made up the bird, would have cost a small fortune.

Certainly an odd choice of companion for a supposed holy man of the rather self-sacrificing religion of the Alteronians. They were said to prefer the tried-and-true certainty of Sorcery and Scripting to that of the new rising field of Mechaniks.

Tiny blots of dark-green fire flickered behind the sockets of the owl’s eyes. Its wings flapped uselessly at its side, beak pointed toward the Priest. The imprint of a spirit had been burned into the Scripting etched into the inner workings through Sorcery.

In tandem, they worked to constitute a complex system of commands and prompts. Xin hated everything about them. Something felt off about constructs. And the Priest felt just as strange and foreign.

Xin looked at his dirt-covered shoes guiltily. The Priest had always been good to him. It wasn’t fair to take his annoyance out on the itinerant scholar and holyman. Even if he used constructs.

“I’m correct in my assumption you have an understanding of Pre-Court Scrawl?” the Priest asked stiffly. Casual language still escaped his grasp, though he’d grown exponentially more proficient since wandering into Kunlun about half a year ago. “How is this? It’s not often you run into a literate orphan, much less one versed in the delightfully complex script of the Old Dynasty. Tell me your remarkable story, child.”

Xin blushed beneath the praise. It wasn’t often he was praised for something that extended to his mental faculties. “It’s hardly amazing. I was a merchant’s boy,” he explained. “I only got a year of proper tutoring by an old state-scholar before he…” He shook his head of the unthinkable memories. “I only know some of the basic characters, sir.”

“Perfect,” the Priest said. He held up a wooden slate with characters in Pre-Court Scrawl transcribed rather clumsily. It was a flowing, miniature detail oriented type of written language, and one long abandoned for the more modern and simpler Dynastic Scrawl. “Could you tell me what this means?”

Xin read the top character as Death. His eyes followed the flowing curves of the lines down the wooden surface, which sat atop the desk beside a series of other slabs. The character directly below Death read Celebration.

He explained his findings to the bemusement of the Priest.

“A celebration of death?” the Priest asked, a single point, bushy eyebrow drawn up in puzzlement. “Is this referencing an execution? The death of a reviled figure perhaps?”

Xin shook his head. “It would just mean funeral,” he replied. “If we were to translate it into Dynastic Scrawl, sir.”

The Priest nodded. “I see,” he said, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. Unlike the Dynastic Shamans, he hardly ever shaved. Apparently, the Alteronian version of Heaven didn’t call for their holymen to maintain proper grooming, at least not by the Dynastic standards. “Thank you, Xin.

“And lastly.” He pointed toward the wooden slab beside the first one. “Can you read this?”

“Piper,” Xin replied. “Funeral piper. They were court-appointed musicians that played during the funeral ceremonies of high-ranking officials. Some of the lesser dynasties south of our borders may still have them.”

Xin had studied the customs of neighboring regions under his father’s watchful eye. It was valuable knowledge for a merchant, one that could prove the difference between sealing a profitable deal or losing a contract to cultural ignorance.

The Priest stared at the slabs, grave. “This has been most enlightening, young Xin,” he said, dipping his quill into the inkwell. “You are dismissed for the evening. I suggest you be most vigilant on your errand tomorrow. I expect you’ll be here tomorrow evening?”

Xin’s eyes widened in surprise. He’d expected his duties to the Priest to at least take up half the night. “Thank you,” he sputtered, inching toward the door back to the courtyard, nearly tripping over a stack of dusty tomes on his way. “I’ll see you in the evening, sir.”

The Priest merely grunted, returning to his work, the nib of his squill scribbling away on parchment paper by lantern-light.

Xin stopped for a moment, wondering if the Priest would answer some of his questions about the world beyond the borders of the Restored Dynasty. But out of fear of the Priest changing his mind about the necessity of Xin’s presence, he slipped out from his quarters, heading home to his tower underneath a star-lit night.