Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(52)

When they arrived at their destination, the sudden horrible smell was overpowering. Sera remembered this stench from her time in the house on Kelper Street. Some days, especially after it had rained, she would get a whiff of it while walking past the vents that led to the cesspits below the houses. The smell of sewage and trash had a strange, sickly sweet stench, one that instinctively made her want to gag and cover her nose with a handkerchief. In other parts of the City, she knew, the smell was unbearable.

This—this was so much worse.

They were standing on a little narrow square of wood at the bottom of a set of stairs. Lanterns hung from hooks on the walls, casting light on the support timbers and floorboards above their heads. The sound of rakes scraping through sludge sent shivers down Sera’s back. Human filth covered the ground, which created such a noxious vapor the air was almost unbreathable. Sera felt her gorge rising but couldn’t cover her mouth with the bonds and gag.

There were grunts from a man, followed by the loud bark of an order, then a slap and the cry of a child.

“What is this awful place?” Joanna said, a look of horror and disgust on her face. She turned to Lady Corinne in surprise.

Sera looked at her as well and did a double take. A different woman was standing there. Gone was the prim and composed look of Lady Corinne of Pavenham Sky. This woman, though still handsome, was quite a bit older, with silver in her hair and wrinkled skin around her eyes.

“Ack! Visituhs!” shouted a grimy man as he approached them, dragging a shovel or rake behind him.

“Mr. Trimble,” Corinne said with a slight bow.

The man was filthy from head to foot. Muck was splattered on his pants, his boots. He wore gloves, but they were the working kind, not the velvet sort favored by the upper classes. His long beard was caked with the filth, and as he extended his arms wide, he showed them a grin that was missing at least one tooth.

“It can’t be her!” he bellowed with a nasty look. The right part of his head was shaved, and his long dark hair and beard were riddled with gray. His eyes had a cunning look. “Thar she is! My precious Tyna has returned home! Look how fancy you are! Is this a social call?” He leered at them.

Sera felt her skin crawl.

“I need to use the lockroom, Trimble,” Corinne said. “Just for a day or two.”

“What? Only a day or two? You haven’t brought me more workers?” He ambled up the few steps to the landing and leaned his rake against the wall. His boots were oily in addition to being filthy. He looked over Sera with a sneer and grabbed her chin with his befouled gloves. “Who is this pretty little bird, eh? All trussed up and gagged. Look at her face. Did her father carve her up like this?” He laughed, and Sera felt a hideous sensation swell in the room, more powerful even than the stench.

“The lockroom, if you please,” said Lady Corinne.

“Of course, of course! I could put her to work, you know, Tyna. Make her scrape the muck like the children. You can’t know how hard it is to find workers now with this cursed war on. Mostly girls on my crew now anyway. How old is this one, seventeen? I like ’em young.”

He leered at her again, and Sera shuddered. Glancing at Joanna, Sera saw the other girl had a growing look of revulsion. Joanna did not look contented to be there. Her eyes narrowed with distrust.

So this was not part of the plan, then. Sera would try to use that.

“This way, my dears. You follow Mr. Trimble this way. Watch your step, if you can!” He cackled with glee and tromped down, hoisting his awful rake and trying to clear a path ahead.

“Cut her ankles loose,” Lady Corinne ordered.

Joanna reached inside her bag and withdrew a gleaming dagger. She crouched by Sera’s feet, wincing at the specks of filth that had already collected on their persons. She sliced through the bonds, freeing Sera’s legs at last.

“Walk,” Corinne ordered, pushing her down the steps. Sera’s hands and mouth were still bound, and she had little choice but to follow. As she gazed down at the miserable gallery, she saw children scraping the muck. Some as young as seven or eight years old. They were filthy, their faces smeared beyond recognition, their clothes soiled. It struck her that they were made to work at night so that people wouldn’t see them. This work was the lowest of the low. Her heart ached at the realization that her programs for the poor had not gone far enough. Young children should not be doing this sort of work. And then she noticed that each had an ankle chain, and the chains were fixed to rings that lined the support posts.

Were they in the City? Or the Fells?

Mr. Trimble escorted them to a room with a door made of iron. He pulled out a large ring of keys and jiggled one of them into the lock at the door. As he pulled it open, the hinges squeaked and groaned. Some of the children shuddered and looked away from the terrible noise, working with their little rakes to clear the sludge.

Joanna was walking in her slippers, wincing with utter contempt with each step she took. The pretty silk was soiled and soaked through. It was obvious she cared much less for this assignment than she had impersonating the fashionable Joanna Patchett. By the time they reached the room, Mr. Trimble had already lit a candle. The horrible stench clung to Sera’s skin, her clothes.

“Welcome to the lockroom,” he said, setting his rake aside as he swung the door open. There were chains fastened to the walls, pegs holding manacles of different sizes, most of them small but many large enough for adult men. The floor was dirty cement. He went to a wall and, wrinkling his nose, picked one. “There . . . this should fit ’er. Do you mean to lock up both of ’em?”