“Expend?” asked Scorio.
Feiyan peered down the stairs, then back to Scorio. She crossed her arms. Her nails were painted black, the hue vivid against the faded robe. “Some roles on a job are more dangerous than others. Sometimes a job requires sacrifices. Dola’s nice to the folks she’s about to screw over. I think that’s how she processes her guilt. Not that she feels much.”
“Got it,” said Scorio. “So as long as she’s treating me badly, I’m good?”
Feiyan smirked. “Something like that.”
Helena came up the steps with a pair of thong sandals in hand. “Here.” She tossed them at Scorio’s feet. “An old pair of mine. They won’t last you long, but I think we have the same foot size.”
“Thanks,” he said, glad to get rid of his ruined pair. “Careful though. You’re going to start making me think you’re doing more than we bargained for.”
Feiyan snorted. “Don’t worry on that account. Now, you’ve eaten.” It wasn’t a question. “We’ve given you a clean robe and pair of sandals. Set up a meeting with a crew that’ll give you work. That means we’ve done our part of the bargain.”
“That’s right,” said Helena, her expression turning flinty. “So. Where’s the sunphire?”
Scorio pulled the sandals on. They actually fit, though Helena’s assessment had been right: a week’s hard use and they’d snap. “Coming right up.”
He stepped into the side room where he’d hidden the gem, and sensed more than saw Feiyan moving to keep him in her field of vision. Hauling the rock aside, he dug out the sapphire—sunphire, as they called it—and hefted it in his palm.
Its glow was undiminished, and cast eldritch cerulean hues and glimmers dancing across the room.
“Here.” He walked back and held the gem out. “With thanks.”
“Craziest deal I ever made,” said Helena, shaking her head in wonder as Feiyan took the gem. “A sunphire for some old robes and a pair of sandals.”
Feiyan bounced the gem in her hand, then held it up, turning it slowly as she felt across its lines and facets. “This is it, Lena. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
Helena reached out and took Feiyan’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You know who you’re going to sell it to?”
“We can talk details later.” Feiyan dropped the gem into a pouch, and like a knife drawn across a throat, the room went dark. “Let’s say goodbye to our guest first.”
Helena nodded and beamed at Scorio. “If you happen to stumble upon any other sunphires, look us up. Though we’ll probably be living in a much nicer place by then.”
“We won’t be here,” said Feiyan, tone flat. “So don’t bother coming back to find us.”
“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “Ladies. It’s been a pleasure.”
Feiyan simply stared at him, while Helena gave a mocking bow. “So long, Scorio. Stay sharp out there.”
“I intend to. How do I meet up with Dola?”
“Time and place. Head into the city and ask for a watering hole called the Double. It’s not well known, so you won’t attract too much attention asking for directions. Dola will be there at Second Clay.”
“Second Clay. What’s that?”
To which Feiyan could only shake her head pityingly.
“You know,” said Helena, raising her expressive eyebrows, “the sun-wire—the line of light that stretches from Dead Portal to Hell’s Door?”
Scorio nodded.
“It lightens and darkens through distinct phases. Clay is the darkest, what we call dawn. Second Clay is the last, what we call dusk. It goes from Clay to Rust to Bronze to Amber, which is the middle of the light cycle. Then darkens through Second Bronze, Second Rust, and finally to Second Clay. Then darkness, which lasts for the equivalent of four cycles.”
“Sure,” said Scorio, the terms forming a blur. “What is it now?”
“Second Bronze,” answered Feiyan. “You’ve slept through most of the day.”
“Second Bronze. So I’ve… a cycle in which to find Dola before Second Clay sets in.”
Feiyan’s smile was hard. “You’d best hurry.”
“Thank you. Again.” Scorio hesitated, then gave them his best roguish smile. “I hope that sunphire treats you well.”
Helena’s was excited, genuine, and she glanced at Feiyan who remained stoic. “It will,” she said. “No more playing third-rate market squares for us. Good luck, Scorio.”
He nodded and left the room, moving carefully over the rubble and loose rocks to the window. He peered up and down the deserted street before climbing out onto the shattered pavement.
The air was filled with the sun-wire’s bright, bronze light; it had that dusty, flattening feel to it, muting shadows and washing out colors. He considered the wire, then focused on the rest of Bastion arching high overhead. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the ruins that dominated a third of the entire cylinder, and studied once more where the sun-wire connected to the cylinder’s end, that raised plug of white marble, ornate and complex and—apparently—a portal to a home world.
Ettera.
It meant nothing to him. An empty conceit. He still didn’t have the right vantage point to see the wire’s far end. He’d need to climb to a rooftop to see Hell’s Door.
But first, he had to find the Double. Tugging at his new robes, which felt stiff and rough after the silken pliability of his old white ones, he set off, heading back in the direction of the market.
The sun-wire darkened a fraction as he went, losing luminosity and going from its bright bronze light to a ruddier glow, the shadows gaining depth, the dusty pervasiveness of the golden light retreating to a more somber cast.
Second Rust.
Moving quicker, he reached the space where the market had been but found it empty now, the stalls gone, only the occasional stone stand showing where planks would be placed the next time on which to display wares.
It felt eerie, stepping out into the open, and Scorio felt painfully self-conscious. He restrained himself from smoothing down his robes or walking with artificial stiffness as he crossed through the market space. He pressed on, leaving the ruins behind to enter a lively neighborhood of two- and three-story buildings that were tightly packed together, the paint flaking off their walls, the air above the narrow streets crisscrossed with clothes lines, people sitting on stoops or watching from windows.
He was obviously an object of interest, but not in a particularly alarming way; eyes tracked him, conversations stilled, but nobody cried out in alarm, nobody stepped up to challenge him.
The area was clearly impoverished. But there was a sense of dignity to the squalor—each doorstep swept clean, with planters hanging outside most windows spilling a gray ivy, whose tendrils blossomed with luscious, purple flowers. They gave off a powerful and lush scent, rich and heavy, so that he felt as if he walked from island to island of redolent smells, the spaces between arid and dusty.
The buildings were blocky, flat-roofed, the ground floors painted a rusty red that was uniformly flaked and chipped to reveal the gray stone beneath. A few were abandoned, and he heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from hidden rooftops, along with the occasional strain of music, a flute playing a plaintive melody, a voice raised in artless song.
Scorio entered a small square dominated by a broad-bowled and shallow fountain. A line ten deep stood before it, the people holding buckets as they chatted quietly amongst themselves.
Suddenly thirsty, Scorio moved to the back of the line, and ignored the surreptitious stares that were cast his way.
He’d not had a chance to take stock since speaking with Feiyan and Helena. To assess everything they’d told him. To make sure this was something he actually wished to do.
Work for Dola. Join her crew, and—what—steal from the other Houses?
The very idea of theft made his stomach turn. He could recall nothing of his past, but still the thought of taking what wasn’t his felt galling.