Coldmaker(14)

Matty shook his head. ‘No. Course not. It’s a camel that carries the Frosts from the Patches to the Pyramid.’

I pretended to wince. ‘That’s one strong camel.’

Matty shook his head. ‘Frosts are almost as light as air.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘How would you know? Jadans aren’t allowed to touch them.’

‘Because they don’t fall ’smuch as the other Cold,’ Matty said, as though it were obvious. ‘They prolly don’t weigh a lot since they float in the sky so long.’

I chuckled. ‘You might be onto something.’

Matty lifted his chest off the wall so he could look across me to Moussa. ‘Hey, Moussa. Whatsit. Your turn.’

Moussa looked down at his feet, keeping his eyes decidedly off the piece of front wall reserved for the Patch Jadans. ‘I don’t really feel like playing.’

‘What? You didn’t get any marks?’ Matty asked.

Moussa gave a resigned shrug. ‘A few. I just don’t want to play.’

I gave Moussa a light nudge with my elbow. He shook his head, but I countered with a look that asked him to play along. At ten years old, Matty was still young enough to find beauty in such a world, and Moussa and I both knew that sort of innocence was something worth prolonging.

Moussa sighed, lifting off his shirt in a long pull.

Matty’s face dropped. I had to hold back my grimace.

Moussa’s chest was riddled with fresh bruises. It looked as if he’d been tossed down the Khat’s Staircase. Puffy welts wrapped around both sides of his stomach, and from my limited training with Abb, I thought Moussa would have at least one cracked rib.

Jadans weren’t allowed to get off the wall, so instead I turned to the side and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck, pulling his forehead against mine. ‘Sorry, brother.’

Matty had tucked himself back against the wall, his face mortified. Moussa leaned across me so he could give Matty a weak smile, his dry lips cracking. ‘Right, I thought we were playing whatsit? So whatsit?’

I looked over all the bruises, imagining the strength that must have been behind the blows. ‘It’s a song.’

Moussa nodded gently. ‘What song?’

‘We can call it the “Jadan’s Anthem”,’ I said, hoping he’d play into it. ‘It’s about time we had one of our own.’

Matty’s face lifted, a sly grin on his lips.

Howdin, who was standing on the other side of Moussa, shot us a fierce stare. ‘Don’t blashpheme like that.’

Moussa shrugged. ‘Listen. I’ll make sure the words won’t be blasphemy. Besides’ – he nodded to the main doors—‘no one’s going to hear.’

‘The Crier will hear,’ Howdin said, his face anxious, looking at the slats in the ceiling, the Sunlight finally retreating.

‘Here’s the thing. The Crier doesn’t listen to us,’ Moussa said with a huff, prodding at his bruises. ‘Closed Ears, too.’

Matty leaned forward, looking over the bruises. ‘Whatsit sound like, Moussa? Our song?’

Moussa finally cracked a smile, pointing to the bruise above his belly button. He sang out a long note, and my ears shuddered with delight. It’d been a long time since I had heard my friend sing, and I’d missed his voice.

‘The Jadan’s work upon the sands,’ Moussa sang, hopping from bruise to bruise on his stomach. Then he stopped, his burned lips searching for the fitting words.

‘Those who need the Cold?’ I offered.

‘Those who need the Cold,’ Moussa sang softly. He seemed satisfied, and moved his finger back to the first bruise, hopping along the painful spots:

‘The Jadan’s work upon the sands

Those who need the Cold

Family forever

Older than the old

Blessed be …’

Howdin was pushing as far away from Moussa as he could, but Howdin had always been a little twitchy. The rest of the Street Jadans looked on, smiling. Considering we had to drone the ‘Khat’s Anthem’ every morning, most nearby ears seemed eager to listen to something else – so long as Moussa kept his word about staying away from blasphemy.

‘Blessed be the birds,’ Matty offered with a smile, tucking the metal feather behind his ear.

Moussa laughed, which was almost better than the music. ‘Listen. Why don’t we sing for something real?’ He thought it over and then picked up where he had left off:

‘Strength to the forgotten

Who still bleed for the lands

So maybe the World Crier

Might release their han—’

Moussa was about to move over to the bruises on his side, when the Patch Jadans burst in through the main doors. They always came together, and were always last to make it home, but Joon led them right to their wall, settling into their stances.

Moussa darkened at the sight of their leader, quickly finding interest in his own feet.

At last, everyone was home.

Old Man Gum began to wave his arms about, pointing to the chimes. The bells began to ring, our curfew officially set. We couldn’t prove it, but we all knew that Gramble took pity on the Patch Jadans and waited until they got home to ring the bell, instead of judging by his Sundial. Anyone not home in time didn’t get rations, which, considering the little we were given, was torturous.