“Raven’s charred bones, Vin, those godsdamned criminals fleeced you! What in the blood were you thinkin’?”
Kit, with admirable ease, seemed to have almost entirely forgotten the tension laying between us. Airing our grievances must’ve made our relationship clearer. It was an unusual reaction. Or maybe I was reading her wrong. Either way, I was grateful; the awkwardness would’ve been unbearable otherwise. So it was with great grace and dignity that I deigned to ignore the offence her comment had delivered.
The two of us were standing outside the Reclamation Committee offices, which was on the outskirts of Spires, so as to avoid monster hunters smearing blood, guts, and other less savoury substances throughout the city. Or, at least, that had been the original intention – by this point, the city had swelled with so many refugees that the outskirts had become far less ‘out’ than originally intended.
I’d left my weaponry with the others. It had been a good decision, considering my sudden urge to thump Kit on the head.
“Vin? Vin? Vin, you oaf, say somethin’!” she shouted, right into my ears. The swordswoman had taken to calling me oaf, and in a moment I was still paying for, I had responded by clarifying that I was actually very smart. Which was an unimaginably stupid thing to do.
“Shut up, you little gremlin.” I still searched for a moniker that seemed capable of offending her – judging by her amused smirk, this one had failed. “I got the maximum either of us were going to get.”
Ten silver chits weren’t a bad haul, for us – especially seeing as it would take a more peaceful profession over a month to earn even one. That didn’t include the money that would be gained after selling the monster parts we’d harvested. Granted, a significant portion of it would go to maintenance, potions and allowing Gast to rent a bone density checking runestone for Whip, but that would still leave half a silver for each of us.
It felt like a lot to me – before coming to Spires, I’d only ever seen a silver chit once or twice, when I was doing errands for…
“Ten silvers, Vin – that’s half of what the other teams get paid,” Kit hissed. “Gods, Vin, I thought you were skimmin’ off the top; turn’s out yer just incompetent. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s worse: stealin’ from me or bein’ so worthless at barterin’ that yer practically stealin’ from me.”
So that’s why she had demanded to come with me. Supressing the urge to groan, I spoke, “Kit, do you want to know how much the team got paid before I joined?”
The young woman paused in her tirade, and adjusted her armour awkwardly. “Sure.” I could see it in her eyes: she sensed a trap.
“A quarter,” I stated.
“Oxdung.”
“Ask anyone. They were getting a quarter of the job’s actual value.”
She huffed. “No way they were that bad – I mean, Ronnie’s a mute an’ all, Whip’s a kid, and Davian’s a pushover… but you seen Gast’s eyes? That lady could snap someone in two just by lookin’ at them.”
I had to nod. “Yeah; have you seen her angry? By the blood, it’s like she can make Frost hit in the middle of Summit.”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed, bobbing her head rapidly. “So what’s goin’ on with that?”
“Well, people aren’t big fans of Strains.”
“Uh-huh.”
“In fact, you could say that they’re scared of them, or even disgusted by them. They’re taken as a bad omen.”
“Alright.”
“So it’s hard for them to get work, because no one wants to hire them.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“So when they do get a job, everyone knows that it’s probably their only option.”
“So they underpay them,” she concluded.
“Yep.”
“That’s messed.”
“Yep.”
“I should go in there and break some stuff, let ‘em know who they’re dealin’ with.”
“Ye- Wait, no.” I grabbed her arm before she could turn and stride back in.
Her dark eyes met mine. “Come on, Vin,” she pleaded. “They need us. More than we need them. Especially with all the hunting squads gettin’ wiped.”
“What if they don’t?” I responded. “What if they throw you and me in a cell, and the rest of the team is left with only Strain faces?”
With a muffled ‘Bah!’ she shook my hand off. “Don’t be a coward,” she said. “We have to make a move.”
“Kit, there’s no shortage of people desperate to try their luck. We’re making a decent wage – that’s more than most of them.” I gestured towards the camp that had sprung up around Spires.
Hundreds of carts, covered in moss and mildew from months of immobility, were shoved beside a beaten trail, bearded men, tired women, and emaciated children huddled underneath them. The more fortunate had tents, which afforded a small amount of privacy. The least fortunate’s only shelter were boxes looted from the city, draped over with thick blankets or hides. Most shivered under or atop their small carts.
Kit’s protests were nothing in the face of such poverty. Adults, clad in restitched clothes beneath worn coats, convened in small groups, quietly talking. From experience, I knew they were discussing what locations were hiring, and where to find the next job. Occasionally, a man or woman would return to a family with a bundle of bread, dried meat, or potatoes. More often, they returned empty-handed. Harvesters and hunters returned from their work in groups, usually leading a cart. Deft hands snatched chunks of monster from the back, while less deft ones were rewarded with a cracked rib. Some enterprising individuals tried to sell their less essential belongings to the workers walking past.
We watched, enraptured, as a middle-aged woman sitting behind a rug hawked collections of carvings, grass sandals, and knapped axes and knives. From within her wares glinted stunning necklaces, wrought from wood or spearwood and studded with radiant stones. Heirlooms, I thought, and likely intended for a dowry. Beautiful enough to set my fingers twitching. But the city was flooded with similar jewellery, and the harvester perusing – clad in a thick tunic, cloak, and sturdy trousers – offered barely enough to buy two meals. I saw the woman’s expression fold in on itself, the beautiful lines on her face deepening into an emotion too intense to share. Then, with shaking hands, she handed a necklace over, to be shoved into a trouser pocket and carried away.
Something resembling shame settled onto the harvester’s face as he strode away. It was swept away by a tightening of brows.
“When do you think the next Aching’ll be?” Kit asked, her gaze still fixed on the woman, whose hand had covered her eyes.
“I don’t think there will be a next Aching,” I said quietly.
The swordswoman nodded, running her hand up and down her blade’s hilt. “Yeah. Makes me think the world’s endin’ or somethin’.”
“The Raven died, and the Aching stopped,” I murmured. “Maybe the world can’t handle a dead god.”
Her face closed. “If they’re too weak to make it, that’s on them.”
I watched as the woman sat, frozen. Children walked between the tents and carts, listlessly toeing rocks. Two people argued with one another, which ended with one shoving the other into the mud. A woman cut open a child’s hand, allowing it to leak into the dirt; a blood sacrifice made on barren ground. Somewhere in the distance, a man lay on the beaten dirt pathway, wearing only one shoe. His chest neither rose nor fell. And the scenery repeated, over and over again, encapsulating hundreds of people.
I looked away. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
----------------------------------------
The Spires of Heltia were unique; like nothing else within my memory. The streets on the ground level were wide and contained more people than I’d ever seen in one place. And, through an incredible feat of engineering a foreign recollection dubbed ‘plumbing’, were almost entirely absent of faeces. What would young, stupid boys throw at pedestrians now? Somehow, the city proper spanned only a league. In that regard, even the Foot was wider.
Yet all of that was secondary; a perception restricted to the horizontal dimension. There was one thing that no being that visited Spires could forget. It was one thing that Bhan told me was entirely unique to this one city, made possible only by Neelam Heltia, an Owlblood and the only Blooded House Head in the entire continent.
According to Bhan, several inebriated Heltian guards, and at least two beggars I had gotten drunk with, the city had been founded a little under a century ago, after Neelam had assisted the first Albright king in subduing the other Houses. He had been given leave to form a House, with the Heartlands – possibly the most absurd place in existence – as his stomping grounds.
I’d always imagined that when founding a city-state, water, food, and just… resources in general would be a priority. Not Neelam. He went straight for the largest speartrees in the entirety of the Heartlands – and considering speartrees only grow in the Heartlands, probably the tallest in the world. Eight pairs, equidistant from one another, tougher than bone, two hundred paces around and taller than a hundred men stacked on top of one another. They didn’t quite pierce the clouds, but they made a better attempt than most mountains I’d seen. And Neelam wanted to build inside them.
I had laughed when I’d first heard that. That was a stupid feat; the kind of feat the Fox would convince the Ox to perform in one of my Divinities. Then we’d arrived, and I’d just stared.
I muscled my way through the ground-level crowd, Kit following in my wake. The space beneath Spires was always shadowed by a purple glow. Pickpockets darted like minnows, but steered clear of the two of us. A woman in purple robes – likely a member of House Heltia – scowled as I smeared weeks’ worth of filth over her finery. I ignored her, but apparently Kit didn’t; a few paces later I realised she had ceased walking and instead began staring down the bewildered individual. Once I had shoved my way back towards the swordswoman, I picked her up by her belt and gorgot and hoisted her overhead. She flailed, screaming obscenities down at me. The people around studiously attempted not to stare.
Standing on a set of crates, a thin boy called out, announcing for the umpteenth time that House Heltia had finally caught the Jackal – a bandit who terrorised the surrounding regions for years – which was apparently a glowing endorsement of their military might. She’d be executed soonish, though apparently his script-writer seemed leery about giving a specific date. We’d arrived after the crier’s spiel about the Albright’s ‘antagonism towards Heartlanders’, their ‘disregard for the inherent value of humanity’, and ‘fabricated claims of harbouring the Ravenblood’.
A man nearby spat at the word. I placed Kit back down. We continued pushing through in silence.
We arrived at a queue of people at the edge of one of the Spires. Officially, each Spire had a specific moniker, usually pivoting on the theme of dead heroes. It seemed an incredibly bad omen, and part of me wondered why no one had beat the idea out of Neelam’s head. The rest of me knew it was because he could probably turn any would-be assailant into a thin paste with the snap of his fingers. Thankfully, no one bothered to memorise any of the real names – they were too long, or difficult to pronounce – and just called them by nicknames. Some exceptionally gifted poet had named this Spire Greens. Because it was covered in moss. Green moss. Heartlanders truly were a breed apart.
We had been waiting for several minutes when Kit finally broke. “Can’t we just walk straight in?” she groaned, gesturing towards a large opening in Greens. Smooth blue light emanated from within, revealing a vast hallway.
I nodded. “Yeah, go ahead.”
The swordswoman joined the stream of people trickling into the opening. My line shuffled forward. Kit’s voice – deep and smooth yet clad in a cumbersome accent – yelled ‘con-artist’, ‘bald-faced scam’, and – this one had me cackling – ‘racism ‘gainst violence’. A moment later, she re-joined me.
“You knew,” she stated, eyes piercing me from behind.
“Knew what?”
“That they charged silver for entry.”
“Whaat?” came my drawling monotone. Yoot’s extended vowels were perfect for rubbing salt in wounds. “Mee? Nooo.” I placed my hands on my chest, as if I’d been struck.
“Yer not even hidin’ it.”
“I think you’ll find they’re just – how did you say it – ‘violence racists’.” I snickered.
Her feet shifted, and I watched her punch me in the liver. I keeled over, groaning. Not for the first time, I wished I hadn’t pawned my armour.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“What,” I coughed, and spat a thin line of drool, “what’re they feeding you?”
“Smart-arses.” Her grin was audible.
“Godsdamn it, Kit, this is how violence racists are formed.”
She went for another shot, but I managed to trap her arm beneath my own. Supernatural instincts urged me to humiliate her – hurt her in a way that never stopped hurting – but I tried my best to pretend they were someone else’s. Instead, I put her in a headlock and began kneading my knuckles into her scalp; a shade of humiliation that was fun for the whole family.
Eventually we made it to the front of the line – me grinding her scalp and her slugging my abdomen – to be met by the bewildered face of a guard. His purple tabard was draped over his abdomen, revealing a gambeson that was, despite the chill, drenched in sweat.
“Chits or Godsblood?”
“Chits,” Kit and I chorused. The temporary weakening that came with losing blood to bloodtech wasn’t worth the chits saved.
“Ten chits for, uh, two.”
I smiled and forked my five over.
Kit wriggled her way out and shot me a glare. “Not payin’ for the beauty?”
“What beauty?” A classic response. “Ah, you don’t know, do you? I’m so sorry – I imagine most mirrors crack-“
She swung at me and I slipped aside. “Oaf,” she muttered, reluctantly unthreading the chits from the string around her neck.
The guard motioned us through to one platform placed amongst dozens of identical ones. It was crafted from pink heartwood, and a short railing covered either side. They distinguished themselves by the pulleys tied to each corner, connected to a small altar in the middle. The altar was emblazoned with an enormous amount of angular lines, spiralling into detail so intricate that even I couldn’t see the finest details – runes, the brains of bloodtech.
I grinned and rubbed my hands, pressing a single button labelled ‘3’. At my touch, it flared purple. The lift rattled, then shot upwards, the acceleration driving my companion to her knees.
The wind whipped my face. The world sunk further beneath us with incredible rapidity. I laughed and laughed.
It was impossible to see the entire city as we flew upwards – the Spire we scaled blocked all but four Spires from our view – but the parts that were visible were stunning. Arrayed between each Spire was a network of platforms, linked by sturdy chains. Their bottoms were crowded with metal plates and pipes, each glowing a reassuring turquoise.
Then we passed the level, and the top became visible. Hundreds of people walked the artificial streets under the azure light of ever-burning lamps, venturing across platforms using small, flexible bridges. Their flickering revealed a lack of Godsblood. Stores lined the edges of each section, while small stalls were studded evenly across the edges of each thoroughfare. I’d heard that the latter would sell cheap foods in better times – roasted corn, yams, potatoes, soups, dumplings, breads, noodles – but now they were filled with other types of businesses: jewellery, tools or weapons, musical instruments, or boardgames. A few street performers played: juggling, cartwheeling. There was even a Face hosting a Divinity.
The stores had enclosed roofs, pipes erupting from their tops, but I’d been inside enough to know what would be within. Some would be cobblers; some tailors; some with bloodtech ovens long gone cold. But the vast majority of them would be Owlblood smiths and artificers, given the most diluted droplet of Yoot’s blood to allow them to comprehend runes. There would be at least one on every platform.
The artificers would create bloodtech – to sell to individuals – or be contracted to maintain Spires’ vast network of magic. The smiths were capable of raising the temperatures in their kilns to outstanding heights, allowing them to forge iron and steel, instead of the bronze that most used. Neither were unique to Spires – the Foot had been flooded with iron and steel after the Raven’s death – but few doubted that Heltia had the highest concentration of Owlblooded talent anywhere on the continent. And the best bloodtech; after all, Neelam founded the field.
All that, passing by in a stretch of diluted seconds. The wind snatched my laughter away, the people below shrunk into twigs, and then were blocked entirely by the next level. It was slightly finer than the last. Rough-spun tunics and greasy, matted hair became adorned with dye and jewellery. The shops and stores were arguably better, and inarguably more expensive.
Pipes glowing with runes snaked across the underside of each platform, forming a network that travelled to the Spire opposite us: dubbed Wastes. Wastes hosted the Spires of Heltia’s most expensive and exceptional magic: plumbing. Inside Wastes, the pipes would propel excrement and urine to its very top, as well as smoke from the city’s many forges. Like the bloodtech girding each platform, the runework filigreeing the pipes glowed steadily. Heltia knew what could and could not be risked. Atop Wastes, all the gunk would somehow be transmogrified into either drinking water or fertiliser.
Whenever I talked about Wastes, I always tried to make it sound more romantic. The truth was, it stunk quite a bit – which was why it was the Spire at the edge of the city – and getting there was impossible, unless one used the well-guarded cages at its top. Or walked across the pipes, empty space yawning beneath them. I wasn’t the kind to belittle my home, though.
But clean drinking water? A sterile way to dispose of waste? Those that didn’t think it magic simply hadn’t smelled disease.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Kit turning slightly green as our lift rocked. She’d refused to hold onto the railings. Beside us, a platform carried a pile of butchered meat and bundles of plants to the top of this Spire, where they would be frozen by some contraption. I’d never seen it before – those areas were barred to the public.
I turned back and closed my eyes, feeling the world go by. Wind buffeted the platform – I rode it like it were a horse. I opened them and looked out again.
The Spires, and the city suspended between them, spread out in front of us in all its glory.
Neelam, the madman, had succeeded. It was a vertical city. The only one of its kind. Inhabitants could go lifetimes without placing a single toe on the earth.
Tens of thousands could live, suspended by magic beyond my comprehension. Godkin would pass beneath, danger passing with them. Perishables could be kept for years at a time. Disgusting, disease-riddled faeces was shot away, and no one went thirsty. But there was no scent of cooking or frying on the air. For all its marvels, House Heltia couldn’t create food where there was none.
My cackling slowed, then halted entirely. A deep pit filled my gut. In the recesses of my mind, someone mouthed a word.
I shouldn’t have laughed.
----------------------------------------
The lift began to slow. Right as the platform crossed the third level, it stopped. We exited quietly, and merged into the bustling crowd. My sluggishness let Kit take the lead.
It was interesting watching her walk through the masses. She could’ve slid around every single pedestrian on this platform – I had seen her avoid blows from Godkin that were almost incomprehensibly fast. However, she instead attempted to barge her way through every single person in her way. Most of the time, she succeeded: Kit was a tall woman, and her lithe frame bristled with muscle. But sometimes circumstances defied her – she’d bounce off a person or two and let loose with a string of threats.
It worked too; most would rather lose a few seconds avoiding her than risk an encounter with a red-faced maniac, especially when an errant shove could send a person into a terminal fall to the level below. Occasionally, the person would sneer back. This time, she bounced off a tall, dirty man, his skeleton pressing against the surface of his skin. My eyes caught a stone knife in his hand, and then he was swinging. The swordswoman grabbed his dirty tunic, using a timely foot to shove him to the ground. Then she was dragging him, and I was desperately trying to catch up.
Walking the thoroughfare was different to watching it from above. The blue lanterns were bright, but in the wrong moment they could feel ghastly, as if the world were suspended in a dream gone bad. Stall-owners screamed their deals, people murmured to one another, and only those directly beside us knew enough to look away.
By the time I caught up to Kit, she was in the process of shoving the man’s skull in a crack between platforms. They swayed, gently, under their own impossible weight; that gentle movement would crush his head like an overripe fruit. I leaned forward and pulled him out, just before the gap inched closed.
The young woman beside me hammered at my arms. “What-“
“What in the seven gods are you doing, Kit?” I bellowed.
Kit flinched.
“Killing him?”
A sneer worked its way onto her face. “He tried to kill me, you daft whoreson!” she growled.
“Look at him!” I gestured towards his skin, lined with countless scars. Spiderweb was crammed into fresh wounds, barely staunching the bleeding. “Look at the knife!” Its edge seemed sharp, yet remained too blunt to truly injure. “And, see here?” I yanked open his coat, revealing several vials. I had heard them clinking. Most were empty, but some were filled with a red liquid. “The man’s just looking for blood. A sacrifice.”
She licked her lips. “He attacked me, Vin. He can’t be mad when I hurt him back.”
“I can.”
“It’s not your business,” she hissed.
I stilled. The dirty man shivered in my arms. “Fine.” I threw him to the ground. “Are you still going to murder him?”
“It’s my godsdamned right,” she hissed, her volume building, “and I’ll be Avri itself before I let you take it from me.”
My hands shook. She drew her blade, which gleamed in the harsh blue lights, and held it to the man’s throat. Kit snarled down at the kneeling man. Then she looked at me. Suddenly, she kicked the Heartlander in the gut, forcing him to keel over, and spat on his head. A moment later, and her sword was sheathed again.
She squatted down. “You do that again,” she whispered to him, “and you know what happens.”
Kit whirled and shoved her way past the onlookers. It took me a few moments to catch up.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
She inclined her head. “Lucky boy back there.” Her voice was smooth. “Where we goin’?”
“Botany & Alchemical Association.”
“Plants an’ potions.”
“Eyah.”
She twisted her head to look at me. “Aren’t we goin’ the wrong way?”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
Kit squinted. “Why didn’ ya tell me?”
I scratched my head. “It was funny.” A mostly honest statement. Seeing a belligerent acquaintance get the snot kicked out of them was prime humour. Unfortunately, the swordswoman was a bit too good at fighting.
She punched my arm, harshly. “Well, where is it?” The bellow had members of the crowd looking at us.
“In Greens.”
“What’re they, made of chits?”
“Heltia runs both,” I explained. “It’s why they pay so well for information.”
“Ah, Ox’s bloody balls,” exclaimed the swordswoman, “why can’t they just live on an overhang? What person would assume that they’d be in a Spire?”
I stayed quiet.
“I mean, wha- what’re they thinkin’! Why not just have it in the monster hunter place-“
“Reclamation Committee.”
“Shut up,” she responded. A growl rose in my throat, but I shoved it back down. “Why make us pay to come up here an’ do their work?”
She made a fair point. A decent answer bounced around my skull. “Delicate equip-“
“Shut up.”
I spread my hands in defeat, even as I involuntarily ground my teeth. Wrapping my head around her seemed impossible.
Then I remembered a man had nearly died and wondered how I had forgotten so quickly.
A conceit, that; I knew exactly how.
----------------------------------------
We exited the Association offices, poorer as both individuals and as a group. Selling a list of edible plants used to be enough to net a handful of chits, however times had changed, and there were enough refugees willing to gamble their lives away for a loaf of bread. Empathy came harder when income was undercut, and Kit had reminded me several times to stop glaring. My skin crawled at the memory.
Eventually, we’d shuffled our way to purchasing half a dozen healing concoctions, and two or three enhancement potions for Ronnie. The large mute couldn’t use their full strength without tearing themself apart, which the enhancers helped avoid. Upon seeing them, Kit had asked whether they were male or female.
Several minutes later, and I was still mocking her for the question. It had enabled me to pull her attention from the vial of inky liquid I bought. At the time, it had seemed a good idea, but soon enough, I would have to admit that I didn’t know either.
“…how truly perceptive of you, Kit,” my voice dipped like a stalking predator. I spoke in the Fox’s aspect, one I always found myself dipping into when there was mockery to be had. “It’s absolutely wonderful that you don’t judge by appearances, truly wonderful.”
Before I began, she had cajoled a match off someone, allowing her to puff on a cigarillo. A damn expensive habit, especially in Spires. No fines or beatings were levied – speartrees were as close to inflammable as a material got – yet I had no idea where she found leaves to smoke.
She spat a plume of smoke in my mouth, and only the fact I was holding my breath saved me from a fit of spluttering.
“Though, come to think of it, is it because you choose not to, or because you can’t?” I had to stop myself from slipping into letting my body twitch: my Kani was never still, and prowling around her was a step too far. “Hmm? What a seer you are!”
“Alright, enough you oaf,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Give me an answer.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Ronnie never tells us. We just call them… they.”
“You don’t know.“ She paused, taken aback. “What? Why? What was- What? That was five minutes of you- “
“Yeah, yeah, seer.” It hadn’t been entirely a wash. Although the swordswoman covered her face by sucking her cough-stick, it failed to conceal the tightening of her face.
“Seer,” I repeated. There it was again. I smirked.
“Shut up, oaf,” she snapped.
Got her. Finally, I possessed an annoying nickname. “Of course, wise one.”
Kit crushed the glowing end of her cigarillo and began to walk away. Except there wasn’t very far for her to walk; the innards of Greens were a collection of rooms spiralling around a pit, which the lift flashed through. Some rooms were offices, storefronts, or rooms, while many others were vigorously guarded, filled with the purple light of glowing runes – bloodtech that kept Spires’ heart pumping. Speculation abounded on whether that was the same all the way to the eighth level – personally, I thought Heltia would keep the more important things higher up.
As such, visiting the inside of a Spire was a rare treat. The elevators inside were prohibitively expensive unless the would-be rider had a specific pass, and entry from the outside was discouraged under threat of violence. Everything a person needed was located on the platforms between Spires, so there was no real reason to enter. In fact, there were very good reasons not to enter: the House’s guards were more zealous – patrolling in teams of three, constantly massaging their clubs – making it far too easy to draw their ire. They’d cock their eyes at any wanderers, daring the foolish or brave to make eye contact.
The result was that the main infrastructural nodes of Spires – the Spires themselves – were strangely empty. Despite all the life in other parts of the city, its cores were almost entirely abandoned. It reminded me of a dying creature, extremities red from the blood pooling within.
We passed a trio of soldiers beating a teenager against the white spearwood walls, their truncheons growing increasingly wetter. They had crossed a line Heltia was usually wary of. The boy was past the point of begging. The sight arrested me, forcing me to stop and stare. Kit continued walking. I envied her. It took me a moment of staring to realise that the victim wouldn’t survive. After a moment, I followed.
Her gaze was fixed ahead, so it surprised me when she spoke. “Why didn’t you help him?” she asked.
The answer was slow in coming. “It’s not our business.”
“You wanted to.”
Finding a response felt impossible.
“No?”
I shook my head. “Let’s speak of something else.”
She opened her mouth, then thought better and closed it again. “What’re you doin’ now?” she finally inquired.
“The Spiral,” I managed, “then home.”
“Oh, the Spiral? The, uh-“
“Games and beer hall. It’s at the foot of Wastes.”
“Right, knew that.” Something told me she didn’t. “D’ya mind if I come?”
“I do mind.”
She snorted. “Well, give me the group’s chits, then.”
I imitated her snort, injecting an ounce of piggishness. “What am I, stupid? You’d piss it away.”
“Wump’s salty teats, Vin,” Kit spluttered, eyes rolling, “I’m not the one goin’ to the gambling hall.”
Almost involuntarily, my arms twisted into a rude gesture. “Games hall,” I emphasised.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, splaying her hands “thanks for the ‘lumination.”
I shook my head. “So I should just give ten silver chits to someone I’ve known for little more than a month?”
Kit’s features settled into a thoughtful frown. “Yes,” the young woman answered.
“No.” I closed my eyes and sighed. A muting of sound on my right side allowed me to avoid colliding with a wall.
Purposefully, she placed two hands on her hips. “Fair enough,” she intoned. “Well, then I’m comin’ with you to make sure you don’t throw it all away.”
As her statement finished, a throbbing pain began to make a home inside my head. My plan had been simple: ditch Kit, head to the Spiral, gauge some rumours, win my sword back, go up to Wastes, water my plants, and sleep. Listening to my team chatter and bantering with them was enjoyable, but spending over a week with them was draining. Everything was jumbled, chaotic, and the longer I spent with them the worse I felt; I needed a quieter space. In that regard Kit’s demand was grotesque.
But it was a demand. Losing her in the twists and turns of the city was possible, if I hadn’t told her my destination. The swordswoman would track me down, and our relationship would sour further. The easiest solution was just to go with her flow. Really, there was no choice.
Besides, introducing someone new to the Spiral gave credit. It’d save me a few chits.
I groaned as if some monumental weight had settled on my shoulders. The opposite was true. “Fine.”
Kit grinned and adjusted her sword’s sheath. “The Spiral, then.”