CHAPTER SIX

Dead Girl

The damnable Cattoleirin left Leta no choice. She stood facing a bed that held a freshly dead body beneath a sheet. This was to be her way out, then: she would the Divine Sjlunroca in the place of a corpse. She found a head full of slander to lash at Clark and a sudden vacuous hate for her sister. Only, it wasn’t sudden at all. It had been growing for six long years, expanding past the confines of personal experience and into every other hurt Leta suffered. Every injury at the hand of another prisoner, every sharp word from Bonne, every person dead with her tophra in their veins, would never have happened if she wasn’t condemned for her mother’s crimes and her own rooted blood. And though she’d tried not to think of i it, for the anger would be too much, Leta would stake every clank and clang she’d earned in the Roc that Dagna had a hand in placing her here.

With the smell of death again in her nose, it felt like there could be no more injustice; Leta had reached the end of the line. And now this. Oh, Dagna, the once sweet and innocent younger sister, have you also killed our mother? Not only killed their mother but splattered the blood on Leta’s hands. Leta knew it in her bones to be true. Who else could send the force of the guards in and out of the prison? Who else could know of Bonne’s death before the runners could spread the word? Leta suddenly had the urge to reach up and scratch at her face. She wanted to change it, to mar it, even to mutilate it so that she wouldn’t see Dagna reflected back at her in every piece of glass or pool of water. Dagna was a mirror Leta would not hesitate to smash to pieces.

Leta took a deep breath, and the smell brought Leta back to the present—sharp, earthy, and foul—just starting to decompose. There was little doubt that she had done something less savory since arriving at the Divine Sjlunroca Temple, but at this moment, Leta could not recall what that might have been. The body was wrapped in a canvas sheet and placed on the bed. Few days elapsed in the Roc without a dead body or two, and they were to be reported immediately—after ablutions, of course.

While Bonnelle practiced the religion of the Cattoleiri in private, publicly, the crown supported the one true religion: Perseverance, the worship of the Lord Below. According to Perseverant doctrine, a dead body must be interred quickly to rest with the Lord Below. A shiver ran down Leta’s spine that was half horror and half gratitude. What would the Sjlunroca smell like if not for the demands of the Perseverant?

There was a banging on a door down the hall, too close. She needed to move. Was she really doing this? A dozen arguments raced through her mind. She would get caught, then have to face trial for desecration of a body alongside whatever other charges were pressed against her—evading the watchmen, tophra distribution, murder, and worst of all, use of the root.

Then, an image rose to her mind of sitting alongside Thorne, looking out towards the ice ring, and swearing on whatever gods were readily available that she would do anything to escape. Well, this was her chance.

Leta took the two steps towards the body, her second found in as many hours. The Divine Sjlunroca: tomb of the living, home of the dead. She only hoped she didn’t know this one. For a cowardly second, Leta thought not to look at the face but to try to roll them onto the floor and under the bed without seeing if it was familiar. But her years in the Roc had not yet made her so unfeeling.

The canvas was cold when she pulled it back; any heat from the body had seeped away. Thankfully, the face was unknown to her—gaunt and waxy and pale—a man, judging by the short, hacked-off hair and prominent jaw. Stubble grew in patches across the lower half of his face. He was her mother’s age, perhaps, and too thin. Again, she wished she could blame pox or malnutrition for the man’s death, but judging by his bleached-out hair and sores around his mouth, any other cause of death would be only secondary to the tophra. A sudden shame covered Leta as she reached for the man’s clothes. She didn’t let it stop her. Shame was her constant companion.

Just before she reached out and pulled the body onto the ground, she stopped herself. A shiver ran down her neck. She had planned to pull him under the bed and take his place. But between the damning of other people, she’d nearly damned herself as well. While the smell would undoubtedly give truth to the existence of a corpse in the room, it would take Umara’s dimmest watchman to fail to look under the bed. Of course, it wouldn’t be the girl they were looking for, but the body would clue them into where she was: wrapped in a shroud and praying for a swift death.

Panic over her near miss shortened Leta’s hesitation. She allowed herself one deep breath before laying her own body on top of the corpse.

The shroud was awkward to pull around herself, but Leta worked with trembling efficiency. She worked from their feet up, delaying the moment she would have to lay atop her bedmate fully. Leta tried to turn the corpse’s head to one side, but the bones crackled and resisted her touch. Crying soundless tears, Leta shoved the head hard to one side and rested her cheek upon his. She wished the man below her was a lover, comforting her with his warm body and presence. Instead, the harsh prickle of his stubble scraped her cheek while her clothing grew cold—and wet.

There was a pounding on the door—their door. Leta took one deep breath, planning on holding her breath while the watchmen were in the room. This was a mistake, of course. She nearly retched as her nose, throat, and lungs filled with the rotting stench. For the sake of her life, she fought it down. Though her life was becoming almost too unpleasant to seem worth saving. Had she lost her last thread of dignity, she may have just walked into the arms of the guards, but Leta would not stand before her sister and be found guilty of crimes she didn’t commit.

From beyond the door, Leta could hear the watchmen talking, muffled though it was. She strained her ears but couldn’t make out any words. However, she did hear the distinct sound of a disgusted grunt; they had found the red string. Any room containing a corpse would have a red string tied on the doorknob to assist the coroners in finding their daily undertakings.

The door opened. Leta could hear her heart thumping against her chest and her bedmate’s. Two sets of traitorous ribs to give her away. Something hysterical bubbled up inside her, trying to make its way out as an inappropriate laugh—or a shriek.

“Oy!” an older man’s voice, filled with cruel mirth, jabbed into Leta’s head. “And it’s not a fresh one.”

The response from the other watchmen was a chorus of mingled laughter and sounds of disgust.

“Go on, Barns, can’t leave without checkin’ under the bed. I hear she’s a crafty one.”

Heat rose into Leta’s face.

“Can’t see nothing from here, sir.” The answering voice was young and choked with disgust. Leta rolled her eyes. You don’t even know disgust, Barns.

The response from the senior watchmen was two rungs below friendly jabbing. They meant to haze this boy. Even with an important task to do, an opportunity for boyhood meanness held too strong a pull for those whose egos fed on a steady diet of putting others down.

“And you best shake out that canvas, Barns,” yelled another voice. “She might be hiding in there.”

Cruel laughter filled the room.

The blood that had rushed to Leta’s face now drained to her feet in a hurry. These men wouldn’t be satisfied until the young one had been properly bullied. Gods, shouldn’t you be looking for me instead of playing foolish games?

Leta clung harder to the body beneath her, trying to find comfort. Or maybe just hoping the body would swallow her whole and bring her with him to whatever afterlife awaited. The chill corpse beneath her felt like a rag doll wrapped in putty. She stifled another retch.

“Excuse me, gents.” Another voice. A familiar voice.

Son of a—

“We’re looking for a red tag—” the voice was near the others now. “Ah. Looks like we found it. If you don’t mind us, we’ll be just a minute.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The senior watchman spoke up, his voice gruff with a tinge of annoyance at his fun being interrupted. “You’re interrupting a critical search for an escaped criminal.”

“We’ll be quick, then. Just trying to make our rounds before we’re off to the next Divine. Strict schedule, you understand.”

There were sounds of annoyance and the shuffling of feet.

The older watchman spoke. “If you’re looking for this one, I think you got it. Smells about two days dead. Morons must have missed it yesterday.”

Maybe they’ll just roll us onto the stretcher. I’ll hold on, and they’ll just think he’s big. But the canvas was wrapped too loosely; it would fall off and expose her—

“We need to check under the bed and the body,” said another watchman who hadn’t yet spoken.

“The body?” Whip-quick, the canvas covering her face was picked up, and Leta reflexively turned her head to see Clark. He looked down and gave her a quick wink before returning the canvas.

Eyes wide open in the darkness, Leta could only stare at the inside of the canvas. She’d had one too many shocks today. Her brain had ceased to function. Well, it was a good run.

“Looking for a pudgy shoot? Bald with a bit of a beard?” said Clark.

“How do you know he was a shoot?” said the older watchman.

“Still pudgy. Is that who you’re looking for, friend, or can I get on with it?”

“Well enough,” said the senior watchman. “Maybe without the stink in here, my boys can actually do their job.” There was an oof of pain from the younger watchman. Likely punishment due to the senior’s displeasure at being overruled and missing out on his game.

Clarkson gave orders to another in the room until the watchmen were well off, banging on other doors.

“Okay,” he said, “grab from under the feet. Be sure to get your arms all the way under. Don’t try to grab any part of the canvas or the corpse.” There was no response, but Clarkson was speaking to the other person as if they were new to the work, but more importantly, not in on the con.

Not being overly familiar with the state of bodies in decay (though she was learning about them at an alarming rate), Leta did her best to follow the corpse’s lead.

“We’ll pick ‘em up, then place him gently on the ground on top of the stretcher, you hear? No dropping. Makes a terrible mess.”

“G-got it.”

Leta wondered how someone so squeamish found themselves in a job such as this. She chastised her mind for wandering and focused on, well, playing dead.

“Wait a pip,” said Clark. “Didn’t you have a pocket watch on you?”

Leta’s brow wrinkled in confusion. The action rubbed her face against the hard stubble below. She had to stop moving so much. The other might be a shoot of a coroner, but surely, he would question a wriggling corpse.

There was a patting sound, then a curse, “Barukh. It’s my da’s. He’ll gut me.”

“Perchance it fell off while you were bending down? We’ve a little time if you’d like to check the last few rooms.”

A “thank you” drifted away as the young man ran out into the hallway, leaving Leta alone with Clark—and the body.

Fresh air swept against the back of Leta’s neck before reaching her nose. She thought she’d never smelled sweeter air in the six years she’d been in the Roc.

“Well, don’t dawdle,” said Clarkson. “We’ve a body to hide.”

* * *

Leta thanked the Lord Below that the young man helping Clarkson was not of the particularly observant variety. After shoving the dead man as gently as possible under the bed, Clarkson wrapped Leta tightly in the shroud, finishing just before his helper returned.

“How’d you get ‘im on the stretcher?” he asked, entering the room.

“Lighter than he seemed. Also, I’m much better at this than you are.”

The younger man muttered something under his breath and they each grabbed one end of the stretcher.

“Though it seems like you’re getting stronger,” said Clark.

Clark chatted easily as they bounced through the ‘Roc. Leta even thought she heard him greet some of the watchmen as they continued their search for her. I’m wrapped in a shroud, floating through the Divine Sjlunroca while my pallbearers joke with the prison guards. I really must be dead this time. Maybe I’ll be happier this way.

Leta’s thoughts floated across her mind, too fast and far away for her to grasp. She felt as disconnected from herself as from the person of silks and sovereigns she used to be. As she was raised and lowered into the back of a hearse, she was able to catch a single thought as it shot across her mind: this is what you wanted.

* * *

Bones cracked, and bodily fluids squelched as Leta was placed atop the mound of bodies in the waiting hearse.

What was she doing?

Horror rose from her chest to fill her mouth and throat. Horror at her surroundings, of course, but that she was acclimating to. No, this was the horror of reckoning: she was being taken away, and she had no idea where to, or why.

Clark’s voice sounded from outside the hearse, its lightness making Leta want to scream.

“Not bad for your first day, hoss,” said Clark. “Only threw up the once. No breakfast for you tomorrow, ya’ ken?”

Clark’s assistant gave a rueful response, but it faded away as the back doors of the hearse came to a close, shutting away light and sound.

Leta had learned her lesson from before and fought the urge to take any deep breaths. She pulled down the shroud a bit and used it to cover her mouth and nose while leaving a slit large enough to see by—not that there was much to see in the fetid darkness.

The events of the last few hours intruded on her thoughts in random flashes. She needed a plan but couldn’t think straight while still on Sjlunroca’s grounds.

Drive away. Leave this place… please.

Her ears reached out, listening for the sounds of horses being slapped into motion, but she had no such luck. Instead, there was the sound of jogging feet and a call to “Wait!”

No.

The word became an echo in Leta’s mind, growing more desperate as the sounds of thudding boots neared. No, no, no.

A clang sounded as the metal drawbar was removed. Someone opened the doors to the hearse, pouring light into her enclosure. The temptation of fresh air was almost too much, but Leta kept her face covered, all but the slit for her right eye. She was nearly positive he couldn’t see her from this angle, but what if he started rummaging through bodies?

Fear gripped Leta as the young man jumped up onto the far side of the hearse. With his weight added to the hearse's rear, Leta began to slide toward him. Alarmed by the sudden movement, Leta’s reflexes twitched to keep her from rolling free of the pile, exposing one side of her face before she could replace the shroud.

She saw the figure for just a second: a jovial young man with mussed hair and uniform—a soldier’s uniform, but not one of the ‘Roc. Something about it was out of place, but she couldn’t say what. It didn’t matter, though, because he saw her, too.

Leta pulled the shroud up completely, trying to mask her action with the hearse coming to rest. Tears rolled down her face. She almost didn’t bother to stifle her sob. But instead of being pulled out of the hearse by her feet like a trussed calf, there was another bounce as he jumped off the carriage.

“All in place,” he yelled before closing and locking the doors, leaving Leta in total darkness. Maybe Leta really was a dead girl.

INTERLUDE

Deteri stood on the suicide stone and watched Leta’s escape. It wasn’t part of the plan, but it was always a possibility. Many forces were at play, and many would soon emerge.

He was wrapped head-to-toe against the ash. His shirt and jeans were black denim, separated by a belt bearing a silver buckle the shape of an autumn leaf. He wore a silver-studded cowboy hat and steel-tipped boots with spurs kept clean of blood and dust. Where another might wear a kerchief around their face, Deteri wrapped his with a thin ash-stained scarf tied in the back below his hat. The only part Deteri left exposed was his hawk-sharp eyes: pure green and set close. “Unnatural” is what they called his eyes behind his back; they weren’t wrong.

It had been long and long since Deteri had looked out at the world from this high vantage point. It felt right. He could feel power returning to him, not quite like when people had called him by his true name, but almost. Like the first fat snowflake of a blizzard, one that promises to bury the land deep in an obliterating blanket of white. Deteri sneered. He had enough of snow and ice to last him a lifetime.

The gates below clanged shut behind the hearse carrying the girl. The girl, the girl. Still just the girl, he reminded himself. She had been safe here. She may have lived another dozen years in the ‘Roc, as they called it. That would have been more than enough. Many thought Deteri loved chaos, as seemingly unpredictable as he was. But that was Na’livi’s way, not his. They didn’t see the work and planning that went on down below. What appeared to be a terrifying chaos was simply foresight and swift enactment. And contingencies. There were always contingencies, even for a girl who had escaped her prison and was off into the world to throw a wrench in his plans. He hated her. She had slipped off into the arms of another. But he would find her. No one was more slippery than Deteri.

With a last look at the carriage carrying Leta Tallum away, Deteri jumped off the suicide stone and returned to the earth.