House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(94)

“Just for today,” I say to the surprised Isidro, “I will forget to hate you.” I break a sprig of dogleaf free. Keen interest, and a fixative. “Go tell Jannik that I’ll read his damn book. And give him this.” I hold up the innocuous little sprig of grey leaves and yellow buds.

Isidro leaves me alone in the room with Jannik’s treasured poetry for company. I brush my hand across the thin creased leather of the cover.

Not that alone. Not alone at all.





The following is the opening chapter from the upcoming novel Bones Like Bridges where the lives of three disparate people meet and entwine in ways they could never have expected, changing the face of their city, and their world, for ever.





THE GRINNINGTOMMY


There’s going to be a burning down on Lander’s Common.

Burning days don’t come along often. Here in the Digs outside MallenIve city - well it’s a bit of entertainment to go watch someone die. Better’n picking over the rubbish the Lams throw out from their fancy houses, at any road. Better still than sitting on my own, feeling all sorry for myself because Prue went an let herself die.

I’m cutting through the Digs to get to The Scrivver’s Hole where Oncle will be throwing back a pint, stone dust still in his hair. The old brick pub is squeezed twixt a pawn shop an a butcher’s; the edges of the bricks crumbled an turning black from the mine smoke. I turn down a dirt street, dodging nilly shit an beggars. The reek of blood an inners from the meat-house almost smothers the sour-porridge smell of the brewery behind the Hole. The sun beats down, high an far away.

Speaking strict, I ain’t allowed in the Scrivver’s Hole ‘til I turn eighteen, but I’m so close that old Lyman never stops me coming in if I’m alone. It’s my pack he won’t put up with.

“Your lot’ll rob me blind and then spit in the beer,” he says, which is mostly true ‘cept for the spitting part. The pack would just drink it. No sense wasting a good high.

But I’m alone - most of the Digs’ pack has already headed down to the common to go watch the burning - so Lyman pays no mind when I slip in to the dark pub. He’s talking to Oncle, who has his back to me.

“The lad’s not going to like it much,” says Lyman, polishing a murky glass with a rag that’s almost as black as the bar counter.

Oncle leans forward, all tired-like. “It’s not that I like it myself. But I’ve no power in this, the law’s on that bastard Lam’s side. Besides,” he says and sighs into his pint. “Might be that he could do a better job with Jek than me or Prue ever did. Lad runs wild, an there’s no denying it.”

“Firm hand is all he needs – Jek.” Lyman’s spotted me, an the conversation stops. Oncle shifts on his stool, nods me over. I’m wary now. Just what the old codger has up his sleeves, a body’s got to wonder.

The bar counter is full of tired old Hobs, backs bent from years working underground. All the scrivvers are up from the mines, cooling their burnt hands on the glass, their iron picks put up for the day. They drink slow, sipping to make the ale last. Oncle’s near the end, so I slip over to him an sit, pretending we’re all chummy-like.

“You gonna buy us one then?” I says.

Oncle just laughs into his bitter. He’s been working longer an longer these days, trying to make his quota in Deep Black. Said he’d try an get me a job working scriv, but there’s more’n more old Hobs laid off recent. The chance of Oncle having a spare bit to buy me a pint is about as likely as our scrounger shitting silver nuggets.

Then he says, “Might do,” which surprises me, cause we play this game all the time an the answer is always no. May be that he’s feeling bad for me ‘cause of Prue. Been less than a week an it still don’t feel real.

Even now she’s gone I can’t call her mam. She never did like it.

Oncle waves the keep back. “A half Rusty Black for the lad - on second thoughts, make it a pint, Lyman.”

Lyman lifts an eyebrow, well he only has one – a huge thing that crawls over his eyes like a windle-grub. Still, he pours me a bitter an pushes the glass over to me.

The faint tang of scriv an hops wraps round my face, heady as magic, before I take a sip.

Scriv is what gives the Lams their power - what they use to tap their magic, an it‘s more precious than air. It’s what they use to protect the city from the Mekekana and the like. So we owe the bastards at least that much – without them we’d have been churned under iron wheels a long time ago. So we mine their scriv an clean their houses an say yes-sir, no-sir, whatever-you-say-sir. An in return, they get all addled on scriv and keep the city mostly safe.

There’s hardly more than a grain or two of scriv powder in a bitter - least-wise, not in Hob-bitter - but it’s enough that I can feel it prickling my skin. The rush shivers over me. I close my eyes for a moment an remember why it is I came here in the first place. “They caught a bat down the Wend, was still feeding when they found it.” I stick my tongue in the creamy foam.

We all knew there was a feral vamp somewhere, drinking the little Hoblings dry. All those small corpses, paled an empty, turning up on the Wend-side heaps while the mothers cried an sobbed so hard that even we packs didn’t bother them none.

First time in a long while there’s been a vamp breaking MallenIve law and feeding off’ve anything more than a knacker yard nilly. Don’t think no one believed it at first, but there’s no explaining those bite marks away. I saw one of the bodies – found it, in fact, an had to chase the jackals away from their feasting. It was still easy enough to see where the bat had gone an torn the poor mite’s throat out.