“Look at his hair!” another adds.
My hand self-consciously brushes a dark lock out of my eye. I take in the mob of hundreds. They aren’t the homogeneous blond of the Julii Academy Nightsiders. Gold is predominant, but there are other shades, too, hints of brown, chestnut, and auburn. Some even sport dark hair like my own. I retract my pike from attack position.
“Sir, what are you doing?” the academy soldier whispers behind me.
“Shut up, cadet,” I spit back. Sometimes rank has its privileges.
An older man with withered, gnarled hands and a sagging face steps forward. A blond boy of maybe eight, wearing a gray jumpsuit, helps him. The old man holds a metal pipe in his hand. He’s bleeding from the forehead.
“Edmon Leontes,” the old man says. “I am Jorund.”
“Jorund, you’re injured. You need a doctor,” I respond, but my eyes are on the boy. He has some kind of gap in his lip, a cleft palate. Such a defect should have marked him immediately for the Pavaka.
“I’m fine,” he says offhandedly. “We’re here to protest these war games on our streets. We’re here to stop the theft of our sons and daughters for the Combat, the murder of our infants at the Pavaka. We’re here to protest the drugs that have overrun our city. We’re here—”
He stops as several rib-shattering coughs rack his body.
I had no idea the underclass of Tao lived like this. I always thought the Pantheon provided for them. That’s what we do on Bone for those less fortunate. The village takes care of its own.
“Your father comes from streets like these. Now he is the Patriarch of House Leontes and sits on the High Synod,” Jorund continues.
True. My father replaced Old Wusong last cycle when the old man became too feeble to attend councils.
“Talk to him. Ask him to remember where he came from. Ask him to do something,” Jorund implores.
Even if I talked to my father, what would I say? Would he even listen?
Still, I nod as if I understand the old man’s request.
“Who is the boy?” I ask, unable to pull my stare from the child’s deformed lip.
Jorund protectively puts his arms around the boy. “My son, Alaric.”
“He’s . . . different,” I say. “Why wasn’t he given to the fires of the Pavaka?”
“A barbaric ritual!” the old man hisses. “Simply because a child isn’t perfect does not mean he has no worth.”
“You’re a criminal, Jorund,” I say. The camglobes hover around me, capturing everything.
“If it is a crime to save an innocent babe, then I would do it again, Edmon Leontes.”
“We’re hungry!” shouts someone from the ranks.
“There’s no work!” adds another. “We need jobs!”
The crowd howls assent.
“Every house employs workers in their industries!” I shout over them, parroting Vetruk’s government lectures.
“They take my father’s money!” Alaric shouts. He’s brave, this small boy, malnourished and weak, speaking up to me like he does.
“Reappropriation,” I say. “In return, you’re provided hospitals, roads, maintenance—”
“Does this look maintained to you?” The old man gestures to our surroundings. A hacking cough shakes his old frame again. Alaric supports him.
My heart grows dark as I see the truth of his words. The decay of the buildings speaks more than his voice ever could. I’ve been taught that those who are worthy, those who are strong, rise to the top. Those who do not are undeserving. Yet no one deserves what my eyes are showing me: squalor, filth, rubbish, and no chance to make it better.
“The Electors, the Synod, the Pantheon—they’re keeping it for themselves,” the old man says, sighing. “They use it to build private armies for their amusement.”
“Tell the Julii to stop kidnapping our children!” a woman screeches.
What are they talking about? I thought the Julii Academy strictly took volunteers, but in truth, I really don’t know. Nor do I know what the other houses of the Pantheon are doing.
“Cadets in the city being tracked by camglobes for entertainment? That must cost a pretty penny. Is that the best use of the money we earn?” asks the old man bitterly.
He kicks one of the Julii soldiers on the ground in front of him. The boy soldier grunts with pain. I warily eye the camglobes hovering around us, but the old man and the boy step forward.
“Open your eyes, Edmon!” Jorund says. “Electors are rarely made from lowborns. If they are, they forget who they were after they ascend, like your father seems to have done. They’ve escaped a life of servitude and have no interest in going back.”
I hesitate, looking again at the camglobes. He’s always watching, Edgaard said of our father. I need to show him I’m not the weakling he’s always thought. “Then fight for yourself,” I say, “become an Elector. Random violence won’t solve your problem. Such actions belong in the arena, where everyone is equal.”
I feel the lies on my lips even as I speak them.
What’s wrong with you, Edmon? Nadia’s voice screams in my head.
“Equal?” The old man laughs. “After years of fancy training to fight in rigged matches? Sure.”
The crowd murmurs assent.
“Being the strongest, being rich, receiving adulation for those things, doesn’t give one wisdom.” Jorund shakes his head. “Look around at what that way of life has borne.”
We face each other in uncomfortable silence.
“I was wrong. You’re one of them. You always have been,” Jorund says quietly.
I haven’t asked for wealth or privilege. I am one of you! I want to shout. I will change this! Those are not the words I speak, however. “If you really had something to offer, your value couldn’t be denied. They’d meet any fair demand because you’d deserve it, and they couldn’t do without you. But that’s not how it is. You don’t count. You’re replaceable, a cog in the structure. Why should they help you? Why should their hard work and wealth pay for your laziness?”
I say it to hurt him. Instead, I hurt myself. I don’t know who I am anymore.
“We just want a fair chance!” someone shouts.
“We want a say in our own lives,” pleads Jorund.
“Then keep protesting,” I say, resigned.
“You know the penalty for dissent!” the old man shouts as I walk away.
The Wendigo. The brutal prison was established centuries ago by the Great Song in the heart of the Nightside. There, the first emperor of Tao sent the murderers and thieves and enemies of his house. It has been passed down through the ages to House Wusong. Only recently, though, my father, with the help of off-worlders, has turned the ice prison into something more—a forced labor camp. The convicted toil in the frozen tunnels to mine metals for House Wusong. Free, cheap labor. I’ve no doubt that after the camglobe footage today, the mines will have many added to its workforce.