did not like their slumber disturbed.
When not aloft, carrying messages, the residents here kept busy at night, keeping the Conclave grounds clear of mice, rats, and voles. The birds were also a source of eggs and meat for the kitchens.
Crinkling her nose at the stinging smell of the place, she crossed to a small cupboard inset against one wall. She would stink like the rookery all day. Inside the cupboard were buckets, brushes, and brooms in their usual places.
She tied her skirt around her knees and set to sweeping the old hay and dried droppings. It was mindless work.
As she swept, Pupp chased after the broom’s straw bristles, biting playfully, his razored jaws passing harmlessly through the bristles. Still, his determined efforts drew a smile from her.
“Stupid dog…” she mumbled with a grin.
With the floor finally swept, Dart still had to give the planks a good scrubbing on her hands and knees, then break one of the stacked bales of hay and spread fresh straw as she had done so often before.
Wiping her brow, she crossed to the corner pump and cranked the plunge handle. It was hard work drawing water up from the midtower cistern. As she labored, something warm and wet slapped against her cheek. Scowling, she wiped it away.
Raven shite.
She glanced up toward the rafters. “Thank you for your blessing, Lord Raven.” With a shake of her head, she set to the pump again, hauling its handle up and down. Sweat trickled down her back. The day was warming out of morning toward midday.
She could only imagine her fellow thirdfloorers practicing their curtsies and bows for the ceremony, learning the proper responses, and reciting the Litany of Nine Graces. She sang out as she pumped, naming each Grace as she pulled and its property as she pushed.
“ Blood… to open the way, seed or menses to bless, sweat to imbue, tears to swell, saliva to ebb, phlegm to manifest, yellow bile to gift, and black to take it all away.”
As she finished, water flowed from the spigot into the bucket. She allowed it to overflow. She’d need an entire bucket to wash the floor.
With her pail full, she straightened. Hot and moist from her effort, she crossed to a ladder and pushed it toward one of the high windows.
Just a little breeze and a bit of freshened air… then I’ll get back to the chore.
She climbed the ladder. Once at the opening, she shoved her head through. Only now did she notice how much her eyes and nose burned from the reek of the rookery. She took deep, gulping breaths.
All of Chrismferry lay sprawled below her. The city spread in walls, canals, and roofs all the way to the horizon. It was split in halves by the mighty Tigre River, shining silver in the sunlight. It was said that the city was so wide that it took a man on foot ten days to cross from one end to the other. There was a common response when one spoke about its vastness: The world is the city, and the city is the world.
Gazing from the window, Dart saw it was true.
Set like a jewel in the heart of the first of the Nine Lands, Chrismferry was the hub around which the world turned. The entire surrounding countryside, from shore to shore, fed the city, barging up from the coasts, carting down from the fields, flown in on the potbellied flippercrafts. The city was insatiable.
And at the center of it all stood the great castillion of the eldermost god, Chrism. Dart, resting her chin on her fingers, stared at the walled and towered fortress. A vast thousand-acre garden spread out from its southern side, shadowed by the castillion itself. Wooded, it looked more like a forest than a garden, fitting for a god of the loam.
And like Lord Chrism himself, his castillion was both noble and humble. Its walls were thick white granite, quarried locally, and unadorned. The main keep had been built on the site of the original ferry bridge that once forded the Tigre River. The structure rose up from both shores and spanned the waterway in between. The center halls were held above the river by giant, ancient pillars, all that was left of the original bridge. Even its nine towers, the Stone Graces, shared the river. Four rose from the north bank, four on the south, while the last and tallest rose above the river itself. These towers were the same white stone, simple, yet reassuring in their solidity. The only bits of decoration anywhere were the carved silver gates to the castillion, depicting the great Sundering, the moment when the kingdom of the gods had been shattered and they appeared among the lands of Myrillia.
Dart sighed, dreaming of stepping through those brilliant gates someday. Until then, there were floors to clean.
As she turned, the sharp creak of hinges startled her, loud in the stone space. Ravens stirred and squawked in complaint.
Dart hopped down from the ladder, fearful of being caught idle. She found the gloom of the rookery suddenly oppressive. The door lay cracked open, wider by a handbreadth. But no one was in sight.
“Good morrow!” she called. “Is anyone there?”
There was no answer. Slowly her straining eyes began to pierce the darkness. Shadows retreated. She saw no one. Must have been a crosswind… tugging at the door.
She turned to gather her pail and brush. As she bent away, the tower door crashed shut.
Ravens screeched. A few took wing, crossing from one perch to another. Plops of guano rained around the room.
The loss of the filtering torchlight from the hall drew the shadows toward her again, eating away the room.
“Is anyone there?” Her voice was meeker this time, her throat tight with fear. “Please…”
Footsteps answered, crossing toward her.
She fell back against the stone wall.
“There’s no need to fret, little kitten.” The voice was soft and deep. A figure appeared out of the gloom, large and broad shouldered.
Dart recognized the voice as Master Willet, a scholar of the Conclave. As he stepped into the patch of sunlight flowing from the window, she saw he wore the usual sashed black robe of the Conclave, his hood thrown back. As was customary for the mistresses and masters, his head was shaved to the scalp.
Dart stepped from the wall and curtsied with a half bend of a knee. “Master Willet.”
He waved her out of the gloom under the window and into his patch of sunlight. “Come, child. What are you doing up here all alone?”
Dart slumped forward. “Punishment, Master Willet.” She curtsied again, in case he hadn’t seen her first one.
“So I’ve been told.”
Dart felt a rush of heat to her cheek. Her humiliation knew no end.
“It seems you’ve been a slovenly pupil. Needing additional tutoring. I was sent up here for a private lesson.”
“Ser?”
He stepped closer. A hand rose swiftly to her cheek. The back of his knuckles slid along her skin.
Startled by his sudden touch, she fell back a step-but fingers snatched on to the collar of her shirt. She was yanked toward him. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her tight against him, lifting her onto her toes.
“Master Willet!” Tears rose to her eyes, confused, terrified.
“Not a word, little kitten.” He leaned down to her ear, his voice suddenly savage. “Not now, not later, not ever.”
She struggled. Lips found her throat, pressing and hungry. She smelled garlic and spiced meats on his breath.
“No!” she cried out.
A hand struck her across the face, stinging, shocking. She tasted blood in her mouth.
“Not a sound, little kitten.” His words were both angry and strangely thick. He shoved her to the wall, pinned her between the stone and his heavy body.
She knew what he intended. Here at the school they were trained in all the humoral fluids, including the
