House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(97)

“You’re going with this one, hear,” says my Oncle. “He’s taking you to your da.”

I wriggle free, but he catches me at the wrist, an it don’t matter how fast I am, Oncle’s scriv-sharp an strong.

“I’ve got no da,” I says again. “Prue said.”

The low-Lam sniggers. The sound makes the nillies skittish-like an they roll their yellow eyes, dancing up on their cloven hooves. Like this, with their single horns gone, they look just like big raw-boned goats, nowt magical about them.

“‘Course you do. Your mam came back from that fancy Lam-House fat with you, an two silver bits for her troubles. Now she’s dead, so your da has rightful claim.” Oncle don’t let go of me.

“Nillyshit,” I says, but it’s useless. I’ve always been taller than the other Hobs, an though I’ve darkish hair an slant-eyes, they was ever the wrong colour, dark-green where most Hobs’ are brown. If there’s a Lam somewhere who thinks he’s my da, well, there’s no-one to prove him wrong, an MallenIve law means the Lammers can kill me if I run. There’s nowhere I can go, not unless I want to be burned like that skinny little bat.

“The boy will come quietly,” says that spit-sucking low-Lam, his voice sharp an clean like a new razor. “Or there will be consequences.”

“He’ll give you no trouble.” Oncle clips my ear for good measure. “Get in the back then, lad.”

“Of course he won’t give me any trouble,” the low-Lam says, an quicker than I ever expected a Lam to move, he collars me. “I can’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Pain runs in a sharp line, fire around my throat.

It’s iron, a thin collar like you sometimes see prisoners wearing when they’re leading them off to the courts, an it burns worse than I expect, like a brand. I try get a good kick in at the low-Lam cause there’s no way I’m giving in an going all quiet-like – let the f*ckers burn me. I’m not afraid of a low-Lammer.

But my Oncle pulls me up sharp by my jacket, forcing me still while the low-Lam ties me to the iron ring in the back of the cart. “Do what they tell you, Jek,” says Oncle, speaking just for me, his breath in my ear. “There’s good that can come of this, you’ve more future in MallenIve than here, sure enough,” He lets go an I push at him. He don’t say nothing more, just looks at me once then turns away to walk back into the house. I pull at the collar, but the thin chain has me fast an my fingers are blistering. That’s nothing. My own family just f*cking sold me over an there ain’t no salve that will make that right.

An that’s it. No more Digs, no more fighting with Marlon and his pack, or hanging around the mines seeing if we can cop scriv-dust. It’ll be off to the towers an streets of MallenIve’s Lam rookeries where the only Hobs are beggars or servants. Or worse.

I don’t want to look at Oncle when the low-Lam hops up onto his seat an clicks at the nillies, so I turn my back an pull my knees up. It must be how a nilly feels when the bonesaw cuts through its horn an steals the magic. Empty, filling up the left-over space with hate.

I scrunch my shoulders an let the jerk an rattle of the cart take me away. My ear throbs where Oncle clipped me proper. I try push all my thoughts on that spot instead of the collar burning me. I’m reeling still. No-one turns family in – that’s stronger than law. But Oncle did it.

Prue did it too in her own way, by not telling me the truth. The hate fills up in me so tight I feel like I’m choking. I want to yell back at the Digs, about how this ain’t right, but there’s now way I’m speaking now, caught between the burn of iron an anger. I swallow it all down, promising myself that no matter what comes in my life, I will never become like Oncle. I’ll hate him, I’ll hate this da of mine. I’ll even hate Prue for being weak, but I won’t ever be like them an turn on my own.

All I got now is those two coins in my jacket pocket. I slip them out an hold them tight as we clop past the heaps of rubbish, past the first of the Seven Widows, all the way through the alleys an streets, the narrow apartments of the low-Lams, an then on to where the rich live in their shiny houses, up to where the bone finger of MallenIve University jabs the darkening sky.

From far away, I hear the thin scream of the scrounger.