A light shimmers in the gray fog. It feels like a nagging memory just out of reach, and Noor follows it to a doorway. Inside, there are tools neatly organized—chisels, rasps, and saws. A carpenter’s workshop. A man walks into the room behind her. He has worried eyes and a beard half-grown. A quarter-inch of his left index finger is missing. He looks around to make sure no one is watching before lifting a stone in the floor and taking a bag from underneath. It jingles when he shakes it.
The man disappears into the fog.
Noor opens her eyes and looks at Nasra Sarat sitting across from her in the Standing Goat’s dining room. Noor is helping prepare for the party celebrating Hallon waking up, but Mrs. Sarat tracked her down because of an emergency. Their family savings were stolen last night.
“Well, did you see what happened?” Mrs. Sarat asks.
“It was Akbar who took the money.”
“Akbar? But why? All we’ve done is to treat him well. Why would he do this to us?”
Noor shakes her head. “I don’t know. Are you going to confront him about it?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Sarat mouth firms. “We took him in, taught him the trade, and like a dog he bit the hand that fed him. The family will ask for a judgment from the Scholar.”
“My testimony won’t work on the Scholar,” Noor says. “He doesn’t believe in fortune telling.”
“No matter,” Mrs. Sarat says. “The Scholar has his ways. He’ll find the truth.”
“I understand. Will you come to the party tonight?” Noor asks.
“Thank you, but we can’t. Not with this hanging over our heads.” Mrs. Sarat places some coins wrapped in a handkerchief on the table. “Thank you, Noor. You’re a blessing to No Town.”
Wahid steps out of the kitchen after she leaves. “Everything all right?”
“No,” Noor says, “but that’s the way of life. People hurt each other all the time. Nothing to be done about it.”
“So it was Akbar after all?” Wahid asks.
“Mind your own business. Don’t you know it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”
Wahid smiles, not feeling guilty at all. “I’ll add an extra helping of lamb to your plate tonight.”
“You do that,” Noor says, tucking the money away. She sidles to the next table over where she’d been working earlier. Her fingers fold a grape leaf around a spoonful of rice, neatly stacking the finished piece into a pot. Over the course of the morning, Noor fills two large pots, letting the repetition soothe her worry for the Sarat family. Maybe after the party, she’ll take a plate of the stuffed grape leaves to their house. Just as she’s finishing, Safi arrives with a lamb carried on his shoulder, baaing. He takes it through the kitchen and out back.
“I’m done with the grape leaves, what next?” Noor yells.
Wahid steps out of the kitchen, sharpening a knife. “Keep an eye on the yogurt? I don’t want it to scorch.”
“I can do that,” Noor says. She drags a stool into the kitchen and climbs up onto it, stirring the yogurt while Wahid and Safi butcher the lamb out back.
Melia Sanass from across the street comes into the kitchen. Her son Taric is with her carrying two large bags of vegetables from their rooftop garden. “Oh, Noor, it’s you. These are a gift to the House. Congratulations on the good news.”
“Thank you,” Noor says. “Dr. Rugaam isn’t here, but I’ll accept it on her behalf. Is your family coming tonight?”
“Of course! How could we not?”
Mrs. Tabriz from next door arrives, carrying a tray of baklava. The paper thin layers of dough are filled with ground pistachios and cinnamon, drenched in sugar syrup. “We brought a gift for the House. Congratulations. I hear the girl woke up yesterday?”
“Dr. Rugaam is out, but I accept the gift on the House’s behalf, thank you. And yes, it was yesterday. Will you be coming tonight?”
“We’re looking forward to it,” Mrs. Tabriz says. “I still remember the last time the Rugaam family hosted a party. It was a fine time.”
“Young Safi’s coming of age,” Mrs. Sanass says.
“That’s right.” Mrs. Tabriz says. “Four years ago. It makes me wonder when she’s going to arrange a marriage for him. He’s a good-looking boy—she won’t have any trouble finding a match.”
“In No Town?” Mrs. Sanass asks, incredulous. “The boy’s Untainted, and from what I’ve heard, she still has connections Stoneside.”
“But she lives here now, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Tabriz says. “She gave up that life when her husband died. Poor thing.” Both of the neighbors look to Noor. “You probably know the story of how he died, don’t you?”
Noor keeps stirring the yogurt. “It’s none of my business and none of yours either. There are things best left not found.”
The gossips are disappointed but only for a moment. They start on the Tibli family three buildings down. The youngest daughter was seen walking with the Koona’s second son. It’s a shame the two Houses hate each other, but it makes for a good story.
Wahid returns to the kitchen, his apron bloody from the lamb. “What’s this?” he asks. “Is it visiting time in my kitchen?”
“Mrs. Tabriz and Mrs. Sanass brought gifts for the party tonight,” Noor says.
“Ah, in that case, on behalf of the House, I thank you. Will your families—”
“Yes, they’re both coming,” Noor says.
Wahid glances towards Noor. “Giving up on the past, are you? Commenting on the present now?”
Noor sticks out her tongue at him. “Just being helpful while the chef is out. How long do you want me at the yogurt?”
“A jot longer. I’ve got to stuff the lamb before we put it into the pit to roast,” Wahid says.
Both Mrs. Tabriz and Mrs. Sanass offer to help, but Wahid declines. “Too many cooks ruin the flavor,” he says. “But we’ll borrow Naell and Niaz tonight, if you don’t mind. The whole neighborhood’s attending and we’ll need the extra hands.”
“They’re all yours,” Mrs. Tabriz says.
Wahid picks up a pot of rice and takes it outside.
Mrs. Tabriz sighs. “He’d make someone a good husband. He’s thirty-four this year and should settle down. It doesn’t matter who to me or anyone else, but staying unmarried that long’s just unnatural.”
Noor clears her throat. “Wahid may not be blood,” she says, “but that’s my family you’re talking about.”
Mrs. Tabriz doesn’t budge. “And I said what I said knowing that family would hear and hopefully do something about it.”
“People have reasons,” Mrs. Sanass says.
Mrs. Tabriz sighs. “Yes, people have reasons and everyone’s got a bit of Yellow in them, but I just don’t understand what this House has against marriage. None of the people in it are married, and that includes you too, Noor.”
Mrs. Sanass wrings her hands. “That’s too far. This House is hosting a party tonight, a celebration. Let’s not start a fight.”
Noor shakes her head. “You’re as much a nosy-body as ever, Tabriz. I’ll ask that you keep that nose to yourself. The people in this House—they do what they want, when they want, and no one can tell them any different. It’s what makes this place special. If you don’t see that, then I’m not to blame.”
Mrs. Sanass takes Mrs. Tabriz’s arm. “Come, it’s all right. You said what you needed to and tomorrow’s another day. We’re all neighbors and need to get along.” She says to Noor, “Good day for now, we’ll see you tonight.”
Mrs. Tabriz says, “Good day, Noor. Till later.”
“Good day to you both. See you tonight.” Once they’re gone and Noor hears the front doors close behind them, she says under her breath, “Gossips. As if life wasn’t hard enough.”
###
From downstairs comes an intricate rhythm played on a tabla. The music is accompanied by a hale voice singing. The voice calls out, and the inn’s patrons sing back. Call and response. Call and response. The song’s about a donkey wandering the desert and his adventures there. Hallon’s aware of the music, but she lets it pass her by. Her attention is focused inside, trying to find away back to her Place of Power.
There’s a knock on the door. The light’s darkening outside—likely it’s Dr. Rugaam come to take her downstairs for the party tonight.
“Enter.”
The door opens, and a woman without legs wheels herself into the room on a metal cart.
Hallon is shocked out of her trance. “It’s you!” The spirit traveler she’d met in Ireland.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Of course it is, love. Who else would I be but myself?”
“No, I mean, you’re the one who told me to come to Dawrtaine,” Hallon says.
The woman tilts her head, confused. “I did? When would that be, love? I don’t see how we could’ve met before.”
Hallon struggles to sit up. “But you’re a magician or a witch or something, right? You sent your spirit traveling to find me and bring me here.”
The woman frowns. “Maybe it’s best if I get Safi’s mother.”
Hallon grabs a hold of the woman’s wrist. “No, don’t go. Are you saying we’ve never met before?”
“That’s right. I helped care for you when Rahima was away though. Maybe you dreamed of me and mistaking it for memory?” The woman is genuinely perplexed.
Hallon rubs at her face. Interesting things happen when the spirit travels. One doesn’t always end up where they expect. Or when. It’s possible that—at some point in the future—this woman will send her spirit traveling and find Hallon in the past.
The woman watches with worry and affection in her eyes. “Should I get the doctor?”
“No, it’s not necessary. Just one more question though, the one you didn’t answer: are you a witch or a magician or—”
The woman laughs. “People have said so, but I’m just a fortune teller, love. And a poor one at that. All I can do is see the past.”
“You’re Noor!” Hallon says. “Milo mentioned you.”
“That’s right. Of the House of the Standing Goat.” Noor laughs to herself.
“A fortune teller,” Hallon says, thinking. “Is it cards? Dowsing? Visions? Spirits? What?”
“You are a curious thing, aren’t you? Well, you’re not the first to ask. There’s a gray fog, which I fly through until I find the thing I’m looking for.”
Hallon’s grip tightens. This woman sets her spirit loose to travel into the past without even knowing it. And at some point, she’ll cross the boundary between universes to do it, to call Hallon here.
“That’s amazing. Who trained you? What practice do you use?”
Noor pats her hand. “I’m glad you find it interesting, love, but I’m just Tainted. Sometimes we have strange quirks, that’s all.”
Hallon takes a breath. She’s found a clue and won’t let it go. “Tell me more.”
“I will, I promise, but not now.” Noor pulls in a cart from the hall. Folded on top is a white dress set with blue and silver beads. “We have to get you ready for the party.”
“I haven’t been properly introduced myself. I’m Hallon Nilsdotter.”
The woman laughs. “I know who you are, love. I’ve wiped your ass for months. Thank you all the same. It’s nice to meet you.”
###
Lights were strung from the Standing Goat to the building across the street. Rugs were laid down and tables brought out, so that people can sit and eat and drink and laugh under the stars. The celebration is a warm cocoon on an otherwise cold, dark night. Surrounded by people, all Hallon can notice though is what’s missing—her connection to the spirit world. All she can notice is who’s missing—there’s a dragon-shaped hole in her heart, an emptiness that’s impossible to fill with food or music.
The neighbors approach and place seeds wrapped in handkerchiefs on her table. Noor, sitting beside Milo, explains that it’s an old custom. “So that good fortune spreads,” she says. “At the end of the night, half the seeds will be given back to the guests so that they can be planted in their gardens.”
Hallon accepts their goodwill with as much grace as she can muster. Milo has his own well-wishers, his smile frozen in place. He only rouses when Safi and Wahid carry out a platter of whole roast lamb stuffed with rice and spices.
Steaming in the night air, the lamb smells of cumin and pepper, and the crowd sighs in appreciation. Hallon’s mouth waters despite her troubles. The body has its own wisdom after all and knows that it must eat to live.
The meat is tender, and doesn’t need a knife to cut. Wahid makes the first plate for her, adding a dollop of yogurt and sliced radishes and cucumbers from the neighbors’ gardens. He walks the plate proudly over.
“We’re so pleased,” he says, “to see you awake.”
Behind him, at the edge of the party, a glass falls and breaks. Hallon looks past Wahid to see a woman pushed aside as a boy runs wildly through the crowd, knocking into people. Out of control, he careens into the table with the roast lamb, and the crowd gasps as it falls to the ground. The boy falls too, but he scrambles to his feet before Safi can grab him. The boy keeps running, pelting past Hallon as fast as he can, his eyes wide with fear, towards the alley beside the inn.
People begin to yell—the boy must be caught and punished, beaten for what he’s done. Until two figures in masks appear out of the dark. The people yelling quiet, like a gag jammed into a surprised mouth. The masked men run through the party and towards the alley. The silence follows them as they chase after the boy.
No one says anything. No one moves. They barely breath.
“What was that?” Hallon asks, breaking the silence. “What just happened?”
Noor’s hands are balled up in her lap. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”
Hallon can’t stand on her own yet. “Someone help me up. We should see—”
A guest takes her outstretched hand and says, “Congratulations. A thousand congratulations for your good fortune. Thank you for the party, but it’s time we head home.” He moves over to Milo and wishes him well too.
The other guests line up, each of them saying how glad they are for Hallon and how much they enjoyed the party. They pretend it’s time to go home, even though the night’s barely half done. Hallon’s questions are left unanswered, as the guests take their leave and the street empties. There’s no one left, except for the inn’s staff. Even the temporary help from next door, Niaz and Naell Tabriz, hurry home.
There’d been mortal terror in the running boy’s eyes. Hallon had seen it before, recognizing it like an old friend. “I demand to know what’s going on,” she says. “That boy—who was he? Why was he running?”
Wahid squats down to pick up what’s left of the roast lamb. “There was no boy,” he says, looking grieved.
Safi moves to help him. “That’s right. It was just an accident is all.”
“That’s odd. I’m sure there was a boy,” Hallon says, “and he was chased by two people in masks.”
Noor, Dr. Rugaam, and the General—they exchange meaningful looks, but none of them say anything. Only Milo looks as confused as Hallon.
“You can’t leave it like this,” Karam says. All night, he’d been sitting quietly, enjoying the party. Hallon barely noticed him. “If she doesn’t know the Rules, then she’ll make another mistake and get hurt like before.”
Dr. Rugaam turns toward him, her voice full of warning. “Karam, be careful.”
“It was the Silent,” he says.
“You could get us all killed,” Dr. Rugaam says.
“Killed?” Hallon asks. “Is that what’s going to happen to the boy?”
“His name is… was Omar Thulabi.” Karam takes a breath to steady himself. “And the people chasing him were the Silent.”
Dr. Rugaam wheels forward. “Be sure, Karam. Be very sure about what you’re doing.”
“I made a deal,” Karam says, “to guide Milo and Hallon, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this outside,” Wahid says. “Inside, everyone inside. I will make tea.”
No one argues with his good sense, and they all troop into the Standing Goat. The common room is empty, the party decorations lonely without the people to enjoy them. There are half-full plates and glasses everywhere, but they’re left as is, as the inn’s residents gather around the table closest to the kitchen. No one says anything until Wahid comes back with the tea.
When no one objects, Karam says, “The Rules, they go like this:
1. The Scholar’s word is law.
2. All rethak belongs to the Scholar.
3. For his service, the Scholar’s cut is 10% of all deals.
4. Deals are to be kept.
5. Protect your House, but not at the cost of No Town.
6. The Below is for the Hidden.
7. Respect the sanctuaries.
And then there’s a secret eighth rule: the Silent don’t exist and neither do those they take.” He takes a sip of tea before continuing. “Omar thought he could make some money by talking to the goons at Civil Order. The Silent found out, and now they’re after him. He doesn’t exist anymore.”
Unexpectedly, it’s Dr. Rugaam who contributes next. “Civil Order is the ministry responsible for regulating the Gloop. Well, regulate is too kind a word for what they do. They have torture chambers, which they use to look for rebels and trouble makers. The Silent do the same—except they look for collaborators and traitors to their cause.”
“They’re not the same at all,” Karam says. “The Silent—they think that Gloop are treated unfairly, and they fight for things like real schools and being able to live and work anywhere in the city.”
Milo leans forward. “So what are they doing chasing people and interrupting parties?”
“The government hates the Silent,” Karam says, “and they have spies and informers everywhere. If the Silent are going to keep fighting, they have to protect themselves and make a lesson out of anyone ratting on them. Problem is, people are greedy, and they go after the government’s reward. They should know better but don’t. That’s why the Scholar stepped in to make a secret Rule that no one talks about the Silent ever. They don’t exist, and anyone they go after doesn’t either. It’s safer for everyone that way.”
“Before the Rule,” Dr. Rugaam says, “whole families were killed as a lesson to anyone thinking about betraying them. I once talked to a man who’d seen it first hand. He said that everyone in the collaborator’s House had had their throat cut, even a six-month old babe.”
Hallon sighs. “And they’re tolerated?”
It’s Safi who replies. “There’s no one else to fight for the Gloop. Not anymore. Used to be there were movements for Gloop rights, but they were all put down.”
“Then this is a rebellion,” Hallon says. “A civil war.”
“So that we’re treated the same as the Untainted,” Karam says.
Safi shakes his head. “It’s more complicated than that.”
Karam’s voice goes flat. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re Untainted.”
“That’s not fair,” Safi says. “You know I’m on your side.”
“That’s enough,” Dr. Rugaam says. “The Silent aren’t heroes. Just people. And people do terrible things to each other, especially if they think it’s for a good cause.” Her fingers are wrapped in knots. “All of you, promise me that you won’t do anything foolish. That you won’t get mixed up with the Silent.”
Karam shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s what you think,” Dr. Rugaam says, “but the world knows differently.”
###
Eratosthenes moves from rooftop to rooftop, watching the scene below. If it were just two pursuers after the boy, he’d escape, but there are Silent closing in on all sides. No one pays them any attention. No one minds being jostled or pushed aside.
Omar ducks into another alley and runs headlong into a Silent Red who clouts him on the top of his head, knocking him to the ground unconscious. The crowd outside the alley thickens, like blood clotting, to keep the violence out of sight. Whether it’s to protect the Silent or the others on the street who might see, it’s impossible to tell. Likely both.
The Silent Red brazenly carries Omar on his shoulder across a major thoroughfare before plunging back into No Town’s myriad alleys. His destination is a neighborhood called the Maze. The buildings there are tall and haphazardly built. The pathways in between zig and zag like the wind. At their center is a small courtyard stinking of garbage and defecation where a group of Silent wait patiently.
The Red slaps Omar awake. The boy cries out and kicks, but the Red’s hold on him is implacable. A woman with her hair tied back approaches with a long knife in her hands. Omar shakes in fear. Without warning, the knife cuts across his throat, sharp as a fang. Blood jets and splatters the woman’s mask. The boy’s heart, not knowing that he’s died, continues to pump blood even after he’s tossed aside. Their mission accomplished, the Silent disperse back into No Town’s alleys. They open grates and slip into the Below.
Eratosthenes claws his way down between the buildings. Omar’s spirit sits next to his body, weeping. His energies are too coarse to sense the dragon, but that doesn’t keep Eratosthenes from curling around the boy.
Be easy, child. Let this body go. It can’t serve you any longer.
The shadows gather at the scent of suffering, but the sound of Eratosthenes’s claws on stone sends them skittering. He’ll stay until Jawad or Reem comes to collect the boy to shepherd him on to the Wheel of Life. They have a hiding spot that isn’t too far from the Maze.
Grieving in his heart, Eratosthenes offers a prayer for Omar, for the Silent, for the city and its guardians, for himself and Hallon, Mary and Milo. All of them are struggling, and they have a long way to go before prying the city from the shadows’ grasp.
Amid it all, the Calamity approaches unabated.