Page 13 of The Demons in the Deep: Extended Edition
They paused to wait for a street crossing to clear, and Kestra shifted even closer to Flay so her elbow wouldn’t touch the somber felt-clad elbow of Graves the physik at her other side.
“It’s so loud,” she said in Flay’s ear, as carts and carriages rattled past. Somewhere a dog was barking. As the traffic cleared, a woman jostled ahead of them, holding a shrieking baby in one arm and towing a bawling child with the other.
“It can be invigorating sometimes,” Flay answered, pulling Kestra’s hand into the crook of his wounded arm. Her eyes drifted to the bandages around its end. He was healing well, but his flesh wasn’t yet ready for any sort of replacement hand, though Mai had crafted a number of models. She didn’t seem happy with any of her work. Perhaps by the time Flay had healed enough to try one of the devices, she’d have made something satisfactory.
Flay turned aside at the corner of two streets, where a buxom woman sold cups of tea from a window in the wall. He bought a cup for Kestra and one for himself, but Graves declined the indulgence.
“Too sweet for my taste,” he said.
Once Kestra had tasted the cool, sugary drink, she was inclined to agree with the physik, but Flay said eagerly, “Delicious, isn’t it?” so she smiled and finished it all, tilting back the cup for the last drop. The cup itself had a papery texture, but it looked like an enormous leaf, curled into a cone shape and pasted in place.
When she lowered the cup, Flay said, “You can toss it anywhere. It’s just a leaf seamed with honey paste, so it will decompose naturally.”
Kestra stared at the leaf-cup, thinking how fascinated Mai would be with the idea. She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but her gaze skipped past Flay’s smiling face to a pair of well-toned men walking down the street, carrying a litter between them.
The men were bare-chested. Each had a few small tattoos along the breastbone. The woman they carried was waving an ornate fan, and the collar of her gown rose stiff and high behind her—higher than her headdress, which was enormous and reminded Kestra of a knot of intertwined eels.
One of the men stepped on a small rock in the roadway and stumbled a little. Instantly the woman snatched a small whip from a socket on the litter and lashed him with it. The man took the blow without flinching, with barely a twitch of pain on his face as he marched on.
“Are they slaves?” Kestra asked, low.
“Yes. The tattoos tell whom they belong to, all their former and current owners. The marks are placed along the breastbone or the forearm.”
In Anchel, slavery was a reprehensible custom, known but not practiced. To see it occurring openly stirred nausea in Kestra’s stomach. She felt the same revulsion she used to experience when she looked over Kiken’s sea-wall and saw the swarms of merlows churning through the foam below.
Suddenly the sweet, cloying aftertaste of the tea on her tongue was nearly too much to bear. She clung to Flay’s arm, swallowing hard.
“How many of the people we passed are slaves?” she asked.
“Too many. Like most terrible wrongs, this one is subtle, and blends in with everyday life. You have to look closely to see it. Come on, Blossom. We’re nearly there.”
His voice had a sorrowful ache, unusual for him. She was used to hearing him laugh, boast, or seduce. She wasn’t used to this subdued Flay who spoke in haunted tones andwalked, instead of dashing, running, climbing, or dancing as he usually did.
They traversed two more blocks before halting in front of a massive building. A flight of broad steps led up to its imposing stonework façade. From its entrance extended a sun-soaked plaza, which ran up to the sea-wall and a glittering slice of the bay. They’d looped through the market district and circled back to the coast without Kestra realizing it.
There was a pier here, too, but with space enough for just two ships. Both berths were full—one with a stunning, sleek galleon of black and gold, and the other with a massive hulking ship ornamented with— “Are those bones?” Kestra took a step forward, peering at the vessel. She glanced up at Flay for confirmation. But when she saw his face, her heart plummeted.
Despite his tan, he looked pale. His features were rigid, his eyes fixed wide.
“Torrent and tide, Flay,” she whispered. “What is it?”
Flay’s throat jerked as he swallowed. He looked suddenly very young. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Feral.”
“Your brother?”
“We have different routes and schedules, he and I—in part because I never want to see his face again. I’m late getting back this time, but he still shouldn’t be here. It’s too soon—unless—” He inhaled sharply. “Sucking whelks. I know why he’s in port. Rutting swordfish, Graves, why didn’t you remind me?”
Kestra moved in front of him and put both hands on her hips. “Flay, you’d better tell me what’s going on or I swear on my father’s bones—”
“It’s the Meridian Games,” interrupted Graves.
“The Meridian Games?”
Flay launched into a string of swears without answering. Kestra was tempted to smack him, but she restrained herself. Smacking Flay on the doorstep of his father’s shipping offices didn’t seem like the right move. He neededmorerespect and support now, not less, even if he was being an uncommunicative ass.
