House of Sand and Secrets (37 page)

BOOK: House of Sand and Secrets

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I stop to give the pig a scratch behind his hairy ears, making him grunt an rub his head ‘gainst my leg, leaving a smear of spit. Pig-kisses. The pig is long past his killing-day, an though Oncle says nothing, I know he’s keeping the old bugger alive a bit longer because of Prue. Every year, it’s the same thing. We get ourselves a little squealer for the bacon, an I get too attached to the damn thing. Killing day, I always head as far from home as I can get. Most-times I go down as far as the irthe orchards an sit watching the windle-silk tents flap in the hot wind.

Pigs scream when they die.

Of course, I don’t tell no-one about it, an I’m happy for the bacon an the sausages, but it still wouldn’t do if Hobs knew Jek Grinningtommy got all sentimental over breakfast. I thump the scrounger’s back quick-like, an step up to our room.

There’s still three cots up here, although Prue’s stuff has mostly been sold off already. In the low thatch, a mouse scritches. The thatch is looking ragged. Come summer, I’ll have to head down to the banks of the Casabi to see what good reeds I can bring back, an help Oncle mend it.

“Here,” says Oncle. He’s digging through a small kist what he’s drug out from under his bed. “This’ll see you.” He stands an drops two bits in my hand. They’re bright as moons in the dark room. I stare at him – that’s more money than I ever seen in my life – two silver bits – you could buy half the pub with this.

“It’s your mam’s,” he says. “It’s what the Lammer paid her.”

I don’t right understand, an Oncle must see it, ‘cause he claps one iron-scarred hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy enough that I just ‘bout buckle under the weight. Working with iron makes the scrivvers strong, an not in ways the Lams with their heads stuffed full of magic dust would ever understand. “You keep that tight, Jek. One day may be that you can buy your way free out of this mess.”

His words don’t make no sense, but they’re making my chest feel prickly with nerves. All my muscles tighten, readying me to run.

Someone raps on the wooden door frame, just before the scrounger squeals below. I follow Oncle through the mud an pig-shit, my fingers tight around those coins as I slip them into a sneak’s pocket inside my jacket. At any minute now I’m gonna have to fly, I can feel it in my bones. There’s summat not right in the air. No-one in the Digs would bother knocking, an my heart stops-an-starts, because the sharif might, but there’s no way they can know about that barrow me an Mik cleaned out, less the little worm turned tattle.

Outside stands a wooden cart, two shaggy dun nillies shifting in their traces, glaring about with slitted yellow eyes. A tall Lam‘s standing at their heads, one hand on the nearest one’s ruff. He’s just a low-Lam but he stares down at us like we was no more than shite on his spit-shiny shoes.

Well, at least it’s not a sharif pack. I breathe slow, watching the Lam careful-like in case he makes any kind of move. Though why a low-Lam‘s out here in the Digs is anyone’s guess. He best run that cart back home ‘fore my pack rumbles him.

The cart’s a simple thing fit only for a servant. Although there’s a thistle crest on the side, so he’s working for money. Stupid low-Lam, should’ve covered that up.

Oncle clamps one hand down on my shoulder again, holding me fast.

“Is that the boy then?” The low-Lam talks through his nose. He’s no toff, though. Just works for one, if that silver sash he’s wearing means anything. He’s round-shouldered in the way that tall an skinny people get from stooping all the time, an he squints at me over a nose that would do a carrion-crow proud.

“So he is.”

“Doesn’t he even have decent shoes?”

“Oncle?” I try pull out from his grip, but he holds me still an tight with his hard miner’s hands.

“You’re going with this one, hear,” says my Oncle. “He’s taking you to your da.”

I wriggle free, but he catches me at the wrist, an it don’t matter how fast I am, Oncle’s scriv-sharp an strong.

“I’ve got no da,” I says again. “Prue said.”

The low-Lam sniggers. The sound makes the nillies skittish-like an they roll their yellow eyes, dancing up on their cloven hooves. Like this, with their single horns gone, they look just like big raw-boned goats, nowt magical about them.

“‘Course you do. Your mam came back from that fancy Lam-House fat with you, an two silver bits for her troubles. Now she’s dead, so your da has rightful claim.” Oncle don’t let go of me.

“Nillyshit,” I says, but it’s useless. I’ve always been taller than the other Hobs, an though I’ve darkish hair an slant-eyes, they was ever the wrong colour, dark-green where most Hobs’ are brown. If there’s a Lam somewhere who thinks he’s my da, well, there’s no-one to prove him wrong, an MallenIve law means the Lammers can kill me if I run. There’s nowhere I can go, not unless I want to be burned like that skinny little bat.

“The boy will come quietly,” says that spit-sucking low-Lam, his voice sharp an clean like a new razor. “Or there will be consequences.”

“He’ll give you no trouble.” Oncle clips my ear for good measure. “Get in the back then, lad.”

“Of course he won’t give me any trouble,” the low-Lam says, an quicker than I ever expected a Lam to move, he collars me. “I can’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Pain runs in a sharp line, fire around my throat.

It’s iron, a thin collar like you sometimes see prisoners wearing when they’re leading them off to the courts, an it burns worse than I expect, like a brand. I try get a good kick in at the low-Lam cause there’s no way I’m giving in an going all quiet-like – let the fuckers burn me. I’m not afraid of a low-Lammer.

But my Oncle pulls me up sharp by my jacket, forcing me still while the low-Lam ties me to the iron ring in the back of the cart. “Do what they tell you, Jek,” says Oncle, speaking just for me, his breath in my ear. “There’s good that can come of this, you’ve more future in MallenIve than here, sure enough,” He lets go an I push at him. He don’t say nothing more, just looks at me once then turns away to walk back into the house. I pull at the collar, but the thin chain has me fast an my fingers are blistering. That’s nothing. My own family just fucking sold me over an there ain’t no salve that will make that right.

An that’s it. No more Digs, no more fighting with Marlon and his pack, or hanging around the mines seeing if we can cop scriv-dust. It’ll be off to the towers an streets of MallenIve’s Lam rookeries where the only Hobs are beggars or servants. Or worse.

I don’t want to look at Oncle when the low-Lam hops up onto his seat an clicks at the nillies, so I turn my back an pull my knees up. It must be how a nilly feels when the bonesaw cuts through its horn an steals the magic. Empty, filling up the left-over space with hate.

I scrunch my shoulders an let the jerk an rattle of the cart take me away. My ear throbs where Oncle clipped me proper. I try push all my thoughts on that spot instead of the collar burning me. I’m reeling still. No-one turns family in – that’s stronger than law. But Oncle did it.

Prue did it too in her own way, by not telling me the truth. The hate fills up in me so tight I feel like I’m choking. I want to yell back at the Digs, about how this ain’t right, but there’s now way I’m speaking now, caught between the burn of iron an anger. I swallow it all down, promising myself that no matter what comes in my life, I will never become like Oncle. I’ll hate him, I’ll hate this da of mine. I’ll even hate Prue for being weak, but I won’t ever be like them an turn on my own.

All I got now is those two coins in my jacket pocket. I slip them out an hold them tight as we clop past the heaps of rubbish, past the first of the Seven Widows, all the way through the alleys an streets, the narrow apartments of the low-Lams, an then on to where the rich live in their shiny houses, up to where the bone finger of MallenIve University jabs the darkening sky.

From far away, I hear the thin scream of the scrounger.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

House of Sand and Secrets
began a good few years ago as another book called The Melancholy Raven, after Traget’s book in the story. When the Sea is Rising Red had just been sold and I was still eager to push on with Felicita’s story, still trying to get to grips with the person she will finally become in Bones Like Bridges. I gave up on The Melancholy Raven despite the enthusiasm my writers’ group showed for it because I felt I was venturing into a territory I really didn’t understand. The Melancholy Raven was (and still is) at its heart, a romance. How appropriate then, I suppose, that the story used to tie people together and bring them back to life is an epic love poem.

But I’m no good at romance. Certainly not in any expected way, so I closed it half-written and shoved it aside.

The call of the story ended up being too strong, or I was too bored one day, or three ravens flew across my path, or whatever reason, and I ended up coming back and finishing it - writing a romance that I felt happy calling a romance, even if perhaps it doesn’t fit all the criteria.

Along the way it grew a new name and became what it is now. I didn’t get here alone. Many good people and dear friends have helped me shape that early draft and my thanks go to all of them.

To the Musers, who are the most inspirational bunch of people living inside a plastic box that I have ever not met.

To Elissa Hoole, Heather Anastasiu, Glynnis Rambaud, Elizabeth Retief and the others who read and gave me feedback.

To the Adamastors, who keep me sane once a month and put up with my sailor’s mouth, my penchant for terrible jokes and beer-fuelled innuendo.

To my editor, Nerine Dorman, my agent, Suzie Townsend, and to Brianna Privett, my partner-in-crime

Most especially though, my thanks go to the people who are by my side every day and who have never ever lost faith in me or my writing – my family, my children, and my dearest Brian.

Thank you, all of you.

A FOLDED WHERRY BOOK