Escaping Exodus Page 15

  I shove a pastry into my mouth, so delicate that its flaky layers melt right on my tongue. And there are gall steaks, cut into little cubes, marinated in a deep red sauce that tastes both sour and sweet. And cheese cubes with the thorns pre-shucked! I pop three in my mouth and chew, savoring how smooth and creamy they are, nothing like the gritty ones Sonovan sometimes brought home from the market when they were in season.

  Laisze’s dressed as a cow, a beast that produces milk. Malika is a snake. Kaieda is a tree with leaves made from copper foil. She makes a beautiful noise when she rustles. Sandris is some sort of eight-legged sea creature that everyone agrees must be mythological in nature.

  Laisze moos at me. I raise a brow. “It’s what the cows said,” she explains.

  “Ah,” I say with a nod. “And what does a fox—”

  “Help! My legs are all tangled!” Sandris says. “How can anyone think this thing actually existed?”

  Malika doesn’t have arms, and Kaieda is all tree limbs, so it’s up to Laisze and me to do the untangling. Grumpy and frustrated, Sandris starts complaining about a waif who’d accidentally dumped a pan of bone dust into the hole she’d bored this afternoon, but Laisze cuts her off with a hard stare.

  “Talk bad about them any other time. Not tonight,” Laisze says.

  I catch something odd in Laisze’s eyes. That don’t-play-by-the-rules look she’s always sporting has suddenly vanished. She notices me noticing, and then with that diligence she’d shown me last night as her knife pierced my skin, she’s untangling costume legs from one another, then boots Sandris in the ass when she’s done. Sandris goes off and grabs the first waif she sees, dressed in a sad excuse for a bird costume. Sandris tries dancing with her, but the waif breaks free. Spurned, but not dejected, she moves on to the next dance partner.

  I stretch my neck, looking for signs of Parton, but it’s so crowded, it’s impossible to make out much of anything. So many faces obscured by the masks of Earth animals that seem more like fables than part of our history. If I do see her, I’ll apologize a thousand times for getting her sent to the doldrums. For some reason, Laisze makes sure all us boneworkers stick close, though, never venturing out of one another’s sight. Still, I look. Hopeful.

  Laisze extends her hands toward me. “I like this song,” she says.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” I say, tucking my hands into my armpits.

  “That’s obviously because you’ve never danced with someone who knows what they’re doing.” She smiles, so full of herself.

  I laugh. Mothers’ mercy, it feels so good to laugh again. “Is that so?” I timidly place my fingertips in her palm. She grabs my hand and yanks, and somehow the world goes spinning, and the next moment, I’m pressed up against her, one of her hands at my back.

  “So, what’s the deal with you, worm-licker?” Laisze says, as we fall into the beat of the song, a staccato flutter compared with the beat of the beast’s heart. “I’ve worked ligaments, and you’re not like any ligaments girl I ever met. Pet heart murmur. Talks funny. Writes Vvanescript. And I’ve seen the way you tense up every four minutes.”

  “Three minutes forty-seven and a half seconds,” I correct her. The words slip right out of my mouth, and as they echo around in the confines of my mask, I wish so badly I could take them back. But they’re out now, and Laisze isn’t the type to back down when there’s gossip to know. So I lay it out there in front of her. “I worked the heart.”

  Her eyes go wide, and her hand goes over the mouth hole on my mask. “Shh, girl, you don’t want the others to hear you say that. Well, that’s some third-ass shits. I’d guessed gills or liver. Heart? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Shits . . .” she says, dragging the word out for three seconds. “And this is your first time working bone? That’s gotta be a change.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve felt more comfortable there than I ever did back home.” It feels wrong calling it home anymore, not when I’ve got our block to go back to tonight. I get weird cramps when I think about last night, pressed up to Laisze, listening to her snore. A loud, ridiculous snore. A real one. I catch myself feeling guilty for these thoughts, like I’m betraying Seske, but Seske’s made her choice for her future, and it doesn’t involve me. It’s time I make my own choices.

  “So, if I get you drunk enough tonight,” I whisper to Laisze, “is there any chance you’ll give me one of those?” I point to the block 99 scar on her right breast. Maybe I’m pointing at the scar.

  “Not too drunk tonight, dear. We’ll eat, be merry, and give the waifs a good send-off. Pretty soon we’ll need to get out of here before we get swept up in the mix.”

  “Send-off? Where are they going?”

  “Oh, Daidi’s bells. You don’t know?” She takes my fox mask off and looks me in the eyes. “Expansion is in full swing, Adalla. All those people who have worked to get the beast up and running, what work do you think there is for them to do now?”

  “I don’t know! There’s bound to be maintenance.” Truth is, I’ve never thought much about it. Truth is, too, I don’t even remember ever seeing a waif on our last beast.

  “We do the maintenance, and there’s more than enough of us for that. The rest of us will get assigned to janitorial or agriculture. The waifs, there’s just too many of them to do anyone any good.”

  “So . . .” My mind swirls. What can she mean? Then: “They kill them? Waste their lives, just like that?”

  “No waste, Adalla. There’s never any waste.”

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat. It can’t be true. But I think about it. Most of the hard work in the heart has been done. No more excavations and reroutings. All the murmurs have been removed, and even if colonies crop up from time to time, everything could be taken care of by our teams of heartworkers. No buckets to haul.

  This is why Ama didn’t want me to be close to Parton. Not because she was embarrassed of her, but because she knew she was going to die. My head starts twisting this way and that. I have to find Parton. I take a few steps, but Laisze’s hand comes down upon my wrist.

  “Stay close,” she says, but I shake her off. And then I’m lost in the sea of masked faces. I pull them off, one by one, seeing stranger after stranger. I’m heaving and sobbing, and nothing is coming out but garbled screams lost in the music and laughter.

  Seske

  Of Given Names and Stolen Lives

  Doka and I stand there, jaws dropped, watching the beastworkers put the final touches on the Abaccas’ new jewelry store in one of the most prized spots in the central market. The flawless facade gleams, setting it apart from its neighbors, which have been meticulously re-created each beast cycle and bear all the stray marks they’ve accumulated over the past few centuries. It is too early for fanfare—that will come later—but this is the first time in over two hundred years that a new store has opened its doors. Now, with this unprecedented change of ownership, those gouges in the floor, streaks on the ceiling, and dents in the shelving are being smoothed and polished over. I’ve never seen bone shine so brightly.

  “I can’t believe she actually pulled this off,” Doka says.

  “I can. Sisterkin is relentless,” I say. “People would kill for this type of real estate.”

  Doka nods. “Maybe someone already did.”

  I won’t rule out any means with my sister. What could she have possibly offered to get them to give up their claim to a storefront, not only for themselves but for all their generations to come? A wave of nausea overwhelms me.

  “Tonight, we’ll do more digging,” Doka promises. The back of his hand grazes mine in a small gesture of reassurance.

  I can tell he wants to hold it, but we’re risking enough being up this early, two patinaed men milling leisurely about without supervision. That boneworker over there carving the Abacca name into the sign, chest bared like she owns the place, is giving us hard looks. She must be new . . . only one scar. I need to be planning tonight’s sleuthing with Doka, but
I can’t take my eyes off her.

  “She looks so familiar,” I say.

  “Who?” Doka asks, distracted. He’s probably already trying to figure out how we can get access to the Senate’s accountancy ledgers, to see if they have recorded any newfound wealth or money being passed into the hands of the previous owner.

  “That boneworker, the one up on the scaffolding. But . . . it can’t be.” That last part comes out as a whisper. The girl could be Adalla’s twin, but she doesn’t work bone, let alone wouldn’t be so bold as to have her breasts on display like that. And that hair!

  “Beastworkers all look alike,” Doka mumbles. “It’s nothing. Now, I’m thinking we should sneak into the Senate house tonight, check the roster for new names . . .”

  Usually, I’m the one with the foot in my mouth, but now his words bite at me, so easily dismissing one of my lost relationships. I’ve told him about Adalla. I’ve told him almost every secret I have. He knows how I feel about beastworkers. I glare at him, hard. He’s two minutes into his plan before he looks up at me, notices.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “What did you mean by that? ‘Beastworkers all look alike.’”

  “Huh? Nothing! I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that they’ve got their world, we’ve got ours.”

  I wince. His patina starts to go uneven, rivulets of sweat trying to break through the golden barrier. I thought he was different. And yet in a moment of distraction, he talks just like every other Contour class snob, showing his true—albeit patina-covered—colors. He hasn’t repulsed me this much since we first met.

  “I need to get back home before my parents notice I’m gone,” I say flatly. “And I can’t sleuth with you tonight. My bapa is already starting to get suspicious. I’ll send word when he starts letting his guard down again.” I turn and leave. Doka runs after me.

  “Wait! Men out all alone . . . we’d draw too much attention.”

  I curse my stupid disguise. I can’t even storm off like I want to. I wait for Doka to catch up and then move as briskly as possible. The walk is awkward and excruciating, him trying to play nice, him listing all the names of the beastworkers who tend his estate, the parties his family has thrown for them, the tips he gives them. He won’t stop. He thinks he’s helping, but the more he says, the more I see how he views them. Yes, he’s kind—kinder than most. He thinks beastworkers should have decent working conditions, and he murmurs of small-talk social justice, but he’ll never see them as equals. He’ll never see them as people.

  Finally, finally, we part ways, and I’m climbing back up through my window. I take my time, careful not to disturb the rest of the household’s sleep. I ball my clothes up and stuff them into a drawer, wipe down with soap and a wet towel, just to get all traces of the patina off me, and then I slip into my night clothes.

  As a precaution, there’s the dummy made from puppet gel, mimicking my breath under the covers. A few braided sprigs of dried moss sticking from the top of the blanket will pass for hair in the night if anyone happens to check in on me. The dummy doesn’t look like much in the light, but she’s lifelike enough to fool bleary-eyed parents. Her body wiggles and jiggles as I disassemble her into parts, creepy eyes just staring at me. Maybe I’d done too good of a job on her face. I hide the parts behind my pile of ancestor dolls that maybe I should be too old to play with, but they’re collectibles, or so I tell myself. Then I put the moss back into a vase. I’m about to hop into bed, when a soft knock comes at my door. I freeze, then pretend I’m snoring.

  A harder knock. “Seske . . .”

  It’s Sisterkin. My heart jumps into my throat.

  As I pad over to the door, I’m wondering if I should spill the news that I know about her plan, or if I should hold on to it so I can put it to best use. If I expose her now, she might be able to change course and come up with something even more sinister. No, I’ll wait until I know exactly how deep her treachery goes.

  “Seske, Matris needs you. Now,” she says through the door.

  “What is it? More wedding planning? Can’t it wait until a decent hour?”

  “No, it’s something else completely. Please, there isn’t much time,” she whispers through the crack of the door. “Matris is sick.”

  Even in her weakened state, Matris is stately, layers of all her gowns flowing over the sides of her bed. She looks miserable, bothered, and irritated—in other words, her normal self, except that she’s lying down instead of towering over me.

  I can’t help but notice the bloodied kerchief she’s clutching.

  “Matris,” I say. “How long have you been ill?”

  Our visits have been short and infrequent lately, now that I think about it. I’d been avoiding her since the coming out party, hoping to stretch out my courtship with Doka as long as possible, and after our engagement, I’d been avoiding her because I wasn’t ready to deal with all the wedding planning. But now I’m wondering if it was Matris who’d been avoiding me.

  “It’s nothing, child. Just a bit of fever. It’ll soon pass.”

  “Favor from the ancestors,” Sisterkin says somberly.

  “Favor,” I say in response, trying to ignore the fire Sisterkin has put in my heart. I don’t dare look at her again. They haven’t been colored in yet, but she’s got black outlines for naxshi on her forehead and cheeks, clunky bold patterns of a celestial line that doesn’t run very deep, nothing like the intricate patterns that Matris and I wear. But the Abaccas’ shallow line is infinitely more powerful than no line at all. This power has me rehashing Sisterkin’s betrayal, instead of worrying over my dear, sick mother, so I force my attention back. “Do you need my help, Matris? What can I do? More pillows?”

  “Bid the ancestors for me, for long life and health,” she says, slipping her offering into my hand. Seven cowrie shells, but they’re pale and brittle and oddly shaped, nothing like the black and blue spotted ones we harvest from the rivers. It takes a moment for me to realize why.

  “These are from . . . Earth?”

  Matris nods, then coughs into her kerchief.

  I’ve never held anything from Earth before. I get dizzy, worrying about breathing on them too hard. My mind can’t even fathom how valuable these are. Then the fire in my blood goes cold. An offering of this magnitude means Matris must be sicker than she’s letting on.

  “You’ll also tend to my duties tonight. A short speech at the Hundredth Night Masquerade. It’s trivial and won’t take long.”

  “Yes, Matris. I will do what I can to lessen your burdens so that you can heal rapidly. I will serve in your stead.” Inside, though, I know I’m nowhere near ready for this. What do I do? What do I say? And if someone asks where Matris is, what then?

  “A fine daughter I have in you. Sisterkin will . . .” Matris blinks. “I’ve misspoken. Khasina will accompany you and guide you through it. You can depend on her if you have any questions.”

  So my sister has secured a given name in addition to her new line. How she beams at finally having one. Doka had assured me that the Abaccas’ favors with the ancestors were few, they had no connections to the Senate, and the only one in their line of any significance is a chief auditor. A line like that wouldn’t have the pull to challenge for the throne, but somehow, Doka’s assurances had failed to put me at ease. Because she seems to think it’s enough.

  “We’ll head to the spirit wall for prayer. We’ll pray hard for you, Matris.” She lays her hand upon my mother’s, but I can tell the kinship between them was never built upon names. Theirs goes deeper than I can ever understand.

  “You will make your mothers proud,” Matris says with a nod, then a cough. The red stain spreads, and there’s not much untouched kerchief left.

  We take our exit then, urgency nipping at our heels. We greet the guards at the entrance to the spirit chamber, then stop to cleanse our hands in the vestibule. The hoglet looks at me, begging for food. “Sorry, girl,” I whisper to her, and give her a soft tap on the head.
“Not today.”

  Finally, we stand before the wall where our ancestors have been entombed for centuries. The mothers of the past all stare back at us, bodies held tight in the formation. Their flesh, their bone, that’s all been eaten away, but their faces are clear as day, set in the calcified remains. The detail is remarkable on the mothers from the past century, after advances in the embalming process were made. This one’s even got age lines in the corners of her eyes. She’s smiling. So lifelike, it’s as if she’s about to tell a joke, except for the ghastly white of her entire body, a dead giveaway.

  Sisterkin lights the candles. Khasina, I remind myself. I won’t be so petty as to ignore her newly given name, though I wouldn’t in the least mind ignoring her altogether. We’re now supposed to pretend that this is how it’s always been, that she was born a daughter of mothers of the Abacca line and not a stain upon our family.

  The candles’ spicy scent relaxes me, making it easier to commune with the mothers. Khasina starts chanting, and I follow along. I get into a rhythm, my eyes flutter, and the mothers sway in front of me. It’s hard to keep focus. I look over at Khasina, a few paces away, caught in a meditative state. I’ve never been able to focus this deeply before.

  “Seske,” the mothers whisper to me.

  “What? What is it, Mothers?”

  I watch their mouths. Their lips are not moving, but still they speak. “Seske, come closer.”

  “Will you cure Matris? She calls upon your grace. She is too ill to be here at the wall, but Khasina and I, we pray in her stead.” I place the cowries into the wall, carefully, so the sticky substance doesn’t get on my fingertips.