Coldmaker(34)

The Roof Warden sat cross-legged beside his billowing cloud, running his fingers up and down his knees. The Jadan Peddler was his own shade of darkness, his skin even darker than Moussa’s, which left me wondering if the Sun had any effect on him. I’d known of his business for years, but I’d never had reason to seek him out before.

‘Don’t give up on me now, Spout,’ the Warden said, lost in the smoke. ‘You paid for six huffs.’

I choked in another breath, leaning over the fuming pile. The embers winked in the belly of the smoke, black plumes tickling their way around my face and neck.

The Roof Warden imported his Droughtweed supply from Belisk. The plant was a special strain that grew along the banks of the Hotland Delta, and inhaling it did things that regular boilweed couldn’t. I held the laced air in my chest, pinching my nose in the hope that I could keep the stuff down. The longer the hold, the longer the numb.

The image of Matty’s lifeless face would soon melt from my mind, and I could go about my errands in peace.

I let out the breath slowly, but I couldn’t quite make it steady. As I coughed, I had to close my eyes, the smoke burning and forcing out tears. But the tingles had already started at my feet, and I knew they would spread quickly.

‘Growing up so fast,’ the Warden said, his eyes like endless pits. I squinted, trying to take another look at his pupils, which reminded me of quicksand. ‘Two more times. That’s all, Spout. And keep it clean. Don’t want to break the magic for the next customers.’

Finding my composure, I turned my head and looked through the crack in the tent flap, watching the row of bodies sitting on the roof, all waiting impatiently to get their daily fix. Some scratched, some rolled their necks, and some looked as if they would throw me off the roof if I didn’t hurry up.

The Roof Warden’s supply box sat by his side, stocked with stolen waterskins, half-eaten figs, and even a few Wisps. It was incredible what a bit of flint, a foreign supply, and loyal customers could earn someone. I desperately wanted to ask him how he never got caught by the taskmasters – a small tent could only do so much to keep a low profile – but I knew he took remarks like that as threats. Rumour had it that the last Jadan who tried to extort free huffs from him never even made it to the dead-carts.

My mind hadn’t yet floated as far as I had hoped, so I took the next dose of smoke through the nose. The oily black burned again like fingers scratching at my brain, but it seemed to do the trick, as my ears had begun to pulse with calm nothingness. After a moment I could barely think at all.

I probably didn’t need the last breath, but I took it anyway. I had to get my trade’s worth. My eyes went to my crank-fan stuffed on the side of his supply box, and I heard a voice in the shadows of my mind.

‘Yeah, Moussa!’ Matty’s voice echoed. ‘We can’t hear you!’

The shock made me lose control of the smoke, spitting out my relief.

I quickly went to sneak a replacement, but the Roof Warden leaped up and wrapped his hand over my mouth and nose, pushing me out of the tent.

His body was larger than mine, and his grip was like a slab of Building stone over my face. Woozy from the smoke, my feet scrambled across the roof tiles as he pushed me. Then his fist jammed into my gut, heaving the stolen smoke out. I dropped into a fit of coughing.

‘I don’t play that, young tears,’ the Warden warned, gritting his teeth, which right now looked too numerous to count. I blinked, and his teeth looked normal again. ‘You better bring me something smart if you want to play tomorrow.’

My eyes narrowed, hate filling the now empty cavern in my chest. ‘I can find my own boilweed to smoke. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s in every rubbish heap.’

‘Good luck! You’ll be coughing up shit and snot for no high.’ The Warden’s eyes were laughing, but his lips were firm.

‘I don’t—’ My fingers clawed at the colours in front of my face. ‘I’m still alive. Abb is still alive.’

‘Loser kid,’ one of the Jadans in the line behind me said. ‘Junkie loser.’

I spun on my knees, waving two knuckles at whoever had spoken, ready to strike and claw. The emptiness was consuming, and I felt too dry even to cry.

‘Who’s Abb, young tears?’ the Warden asked, a spry grin dancing across his lips.

‘I—’

Matty’s voice cut me off, sharp and distorted: ‘We can’t hear you, Moussa! Whatsit!’

I put my hands over my ears, trying to shake him loose.

It wasn’t my fault. It was Shilah’s fault. She was the one that started this whole mess. She’d tossed the Shiver off the roof; she’d given me that cursed Khatmelon.

It wasn’t my fault.

‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Spout,’ the Warden said, slithering back towards his tent and waving the next Jadan forward.

One of the other Jadans waiting his turn was scratching at his face. Beetles skittered out from the giant hole he was making in his cheek, but after a moment the hallucination dissolved.

Waves of heat splashed from the sky, trying to knock me on my back, but there was a shield being built now, brick by brick. And silence.

The Sun had no power over me. The smoke was making me invincible.

It wasn’t my fault.

Six months ago, on the final Khatday of the year, Gramble had walked through our barracks doors and ushered in a group of new barracks members.