Red left him in what she called a sitting room. Sure you could sit in it - a few plush lounges clustered in the center. Mostly, though, it was empty space. Grey light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, mapping swirls of dust in the air.

Dally stood still until his leg started bouncing. It could have been a couple of minutes, or an hour. The uniform lay stiff on his shoulders, snapping taut whenever he tried moving. It was silent. His own breathing felt loud, and when he shifted, the creak of his boots echoed. How big was this house? Weren’t there people?

Dally spared a glance for the door, then opened the nearest cabinet and started rifling through it. It was packed to the teeth with glittery objects. He knocked silver and glassware aside, until his fingers brushed something searing hot. Dally yelped, flinched back. When he looked, the burning object was a small figure of a woman, shoved way at the back. Aurum thrummed in the core of the nude statue, burning so hot that the points of the tiny breasts glowed. It was a casual fortune in magic.

Ceramic clinked on tile behind him, and Dally spun to see a homunculus in the door. It looked at him, bland, before crossing the room to the hearth. Glowing coals spilled from between it’s fingers, until it shoved them deep under the unlit pile of logs. Smoke curled up from tinder, twisted in the grate.

Dally heard sometimes there was a soul in the homunculus, a dead man trapped in there to move the clay.

“Can you talk?” he asked. “Is someone coming?”

The clayman turned towards him, slow. After a long time it forced it’s stiff shoulders up in a shrug.

“Okay,” Dally said, “thanks.”

It left. The fire swelled, pouring uncomfortable heat into the room. Outside in the echoing hall, there was a clatter like something being knocked over. Drunk laughter followed, getting louder and closer. Dally already knew Lyle’s voice, he realised.

The other two turned out to be the Lyric execs. At least, they looked corporate. All three men were smiling, but the two execs were faking. Lyle was out of his mind - beaming, with his arm around the younger one’s shoulders. Dally guessed the poor bastard was the lower ranking one, Butler, because he doubted Lyle would drape himself all over Vice President Mayworth. Lyle steered them by force towards the lounges.

Mayworth lagged behind, leaning on the back of a chair instead of sitting properly. “Maybe we’ve taken enough of your time,” he said.

“No,” Lyle said, “after I made you wait? You’ll have another drink I hope. I have something to show-” he seemed to see Dally for the first time. “There! Come here, come-”

He was pointing at a spot on the floor in front of them, and Dally made himself walk there. When he stopped he was right in front of them, rocking on his heels in the stiff new clothes.

The two Lyric men considered him, while Lyle waited expectantly.

“You’ll need to tell us,” Mayworth said.“I’m not much for thralls.”

Lyle’s mouth twisted. “It’s the new champion of Wesend, since last night.”

“Is it.”

“Come here Dally.” When Dally took an uncertain step closer, Lyle tugged him in by the sleeve. ‘You see?” he told the execs, “Anvil says they don’t sell display. You need to know how to talk to these people. Doesn’t he look good?”

“Very human,” Butler said, dutiful. He looked like Lyle’s arm was getting heavy. “Did you still want the contract to start in August?”

“We said six months?”

And then they were talking business, with Dally just standing there, painfully close. It seemed like Lyric wanted to move aramite and war cars through the west counties to the front. They had a federal supply contract. Lyle would receive campaign donations and in exchange he’d organise to finish the abandoned west rail-link to Naibor.

At least, that was what the execs wanted. Lyle wanted more drinks. It was hard to follow, the way he was rambling. While Dally struggled to keep still, the conversation skid over a cliff, and suddenly they were arguing over how many days exactly were in six months.

Without warning, Lyle looked up at Dally, and pat the edge of the lounge. “Sit.”

He was serious. The two other men saw at the same time, and he felt the insult choke the air. Dally looked at them, then at the floor until Lyle pat the lounge again. As Dally sat the older man abruptly stood. Mayworth’s face was calm, but he shook his sleeves straight a little too hard.

“I think we’ve gone as far as we can, for tonight.” A homunculus appeared from the shadows with his coat. “We’ll draft the timeline and have it sent over. And a contract.”

Butler glanced sideways at Dally sitting next to him. He was struggling out from under Lyle’s arm. “It was a pleasure,” he said, “a real pleasure, as always.”

They were gone in seconds, shaking off Lyle’s half-hearted protest. As soon as the door shut, he edged towards Dally, looking him up and down. He was flushed, eyes glittering wet. “You like the uniform, don’t you?”

“Sure, boss.”

“Master.” Lyle reached with one sweaty hand, clutched the lapel of Dally’s new jacket. He dragged him closer, into a dank fog of whisky breath. His grin suddenly took up all of Dally’s “You’re so shy.” His fingers pried open the top of the uniform shirt. “I just want to see.”

Dally waited, listless, while Lyle struggled with his jacket, then with his shirt. When both were gone, he shivered, until the governor’s hand slid down the front of his body. It froze him. The touch crawled over his chest, then faded out of sensation as it paused on the lump of scar tissue.

By now Lyle was leaning into him, breath stirring the hair on Dally’s neck. “I can grow it back,” he whispered, “wouldn’t that be good?”

Dally’s head was full of white noise, like a train rattling down an endless tunnel. “Can I get you another drink?”

The groping hands didn’t pause. “Yes, yes.”

Even after agreeing, Lyle whined when Dally pulled away, like it surprised him. Dally ignored it, walking a little too fast to a table in the corner. There were glasses there, and an ice-box, and he aimlessly moved things around for a second. The white noise wasn’t clearing up, which made it hard to concentrate. He picked up a bottle of dark glass, and felt liquor slosh around at the bottom.

Lyle was looking at him.

“It’s empty,” Dally said. “I’ll go to the kitchen.”

A flash of confusion crossed Lyle’s flushed face. “Mm.”

Whatever that meant, Dally was gone. In the corridor he started shivering again, instantly and violently. Was it this cold before? He uncapped the bottle still in his hand, and took a too-long gulp of the mystery stuff. Then he coughed, ended up spitting a jet of liquor on the tile. His nostrils burned as he started walking.

Was there even a kitchen? Big mansions had kitchens, right? He turned down a corridor at random, moving sticky-slow. Drinking slower, too, because he wanted to keep it down. Maybe Lyle would pass out if Dally took long enough to come back. Or, maybe he’d be waiting with a rune pen.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

That was a bad thought, but it didn’t hurry Dally up any. He thumped his boot against the plinth of a bust, and trailed his fingers over a painting as he passed. Every room was the same silk and jade and wood, with glints of gold in the dark. It made it feel like going in circles. Dally would have thought he was dreaming, except he was never in a house like this before. A homunculus silently scrubbed the floor in a corridor, and didn’t look up when he passed.

In another drawing room he stopped, seeing a cabinet in the corner. Before he even opened the door, though, there was a voice behind him.

"The hell?”

A silhouette in the door bristled with spines. It was the thrall from the gate; ‘Lane’, Red had called him.

“One day here,” Lane said, “and you’re walking around like that. Where’s your shirt”

Dally watched him for a long second, waiting to get angry. Instead, the cold feeling was turning nauseous in his gut. He took another pull from the bottle, went back to rummaging the cabinet. There were bottles in there.

“What,” Lane said, “are you drunk?"

"I'm working on it.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, spun him around. Dally found himself staring at two rows of needle teeth, the stranger’s face rippling and stretching.

Maybe Dally was drunk, already - he laughed before he could stop himself. When the laugh faded he didn’t smile, just looked up and down. Lane was slightly shorter, slightly older.

“I killed a guy yesterday,” Dally said. “I’m a killer.”

The hands fell off of him, as Lane took a step back. Dally went back to the cabinet and snatched the nearest bottle. When he’d taken a gulp, he paused for a long time, waiting for this whole thing to make sense.

“I, uh. The boss has my shirt.” Why was he explaining? Dally shook himself, closed the cabinet with a soft click. “I gotta... I gotta go back, now. We can fight tomorrow."

Lane let him pass. The spines in his hair had flattened, and he was watching Dally in a different way, unreadable. Dally brushed past him without looking, made for the door.

“Wait,” Lane said. Then, as Dally didn’t pause; “I said wait.”

Dally stopped long enough for Lane pushed in front of him. Dally swayed, uneasy, watching the strange look cross his face again.

“Give me that,” Lane said.

Dally glanced down at the bottle in his hand, confused, and back up.

“Yes, that,” Lane said. “Give it to me.”

For some reason Dally did hold it out, slowly, and hesitated until Lane snatched it from his hand.

“Okay,” Lane said, tipped his head. “Go on to bed now. I’ll handle this.”

When Dally just looked at him, he pointed at a servants exit. “Go on.”

“…Are you sure?”

”Just go.”

The jolt of relief was painful, laced with booze and cold. Dally let out a harsh breath, ran a hand back through his hair. He still wasn’t sure what Lane was offering. To take his place? Could he do that?

“Thank you,” Dally said, instead of asking.

“Don’t you talk to me again.”

--

Dally had finally stopped rocking by the time he found the thrall quarters. He had the numbing heat of booze instead, and the inside of his head was empty. It made it hard to understand where he was, which looked like no thrall house he’d ever been in.

It was clean, for starters, smelling faintly of sweat and block feed. The plank floors were lathed flat and polished. There were even windows, blurred and covered with wrought iron bars; they were above ground. Outside was a thin gap between buildings, the stone blue in the moonlight.

It was also the smallest barrack he’d ever seen. The bunk rows went back only to twenty or so, and they were only two high. The wooden posts were carved with roses, and scoured from years of clawing. There was even some room between the rows, so your arms could fall out of bed without hitting the next thrall in the face. It was all alien, like Lyle himself. At least nothing had gilt on it.

Only half the bunks were taken - there must be a night shift.

Red was awake, humming loud and tuneless. Seeing Dally she jumped down from her bunk, squinted at his face. “Okay, Harper?”

Dally faked a smile for her. “Okay.”

“Good.” She looked relieved. “Lane didn’t find you.”

“Oh he found me alright.” Dally muttered, then when Red looked sideways at him; “We didn’t fight.”

She stared a bit longer, waiting. When Dally didn’t say anything more she pointed to the bunk under hers. “This one’s empty.”

A female in the back row cackled. Another whistled part of a song; An empty bed stays cold all night.

“You could both fit in the top if she lies underneath,” someone drawled.

Red snarled at the room in general, and kicked the nearest bunk. The guy in it yelped, confused.

Dally had already flopped down, and the bullshit became background noise behind his closed eyes. That was, until someone gently prod his shoulder. He cracked an eyelid, to find the one Red had kicked at staring at him with wide blue eyes. He was even younger than Red, with a snub nose crooked from breaking and healing.

“Hey,” the thrall asked, “you know any songs?”

Red hissed. “Leave him alone, he’s tired.”

“S’okay. Fine.” Dally rubbed his eyes, willing his body to fall through the bed. “Just pay attention, you’re only getting them once.”

By the time they got through all the songs he really was tired. He sang without lifting his head, in the dry, off-key rasp that was his best singing voice. They were just work songs, and some ones that had come back from the front. The sad ones he kept to himself - he didn’t feel like sobbing tonight. The Wesend thralls knew most of them already, and whenever they knew one someone would yell ‘next’. Some were new to them, though, and then Dally had to pour out out the whole damn thing, stumbling through the words.

When they had heard everything he let them sing on on their own, listening to his songs come back. The words were already mutated - no one here had one of those perfect memories. Some voices were good, though, and now his throat ached in that good way from listening.

Though he couldn’t see her, above him Red was just mumbling the words or humming. Her hand on the edge of the bunk scratched at the frame. When she lapsed into silence, Dally reached, gently poked the bottom of her bed.

“Hey,” he swallowed - even the whisper was hoarse. “is Lane jealous? Of me?”

“No!” Red whispered. “I mean, no.”

Her voice wavered, and even in the dark Dally thought he heard her blushing. She was probably the worst liar he had ever heard.

“No,” she muttered, eventually. “It’s not simple like that. At the start Lane didn’t like the master, but then he got to liking him? And now he’s not the favourite any more, so he gets all cut up-” She was actually angry - her foot rattled the bunk frame. “It’s embarrassing.”

Dally was quiet for a while. Finally he rolled over, watching silhouettes move in the dark.