“Learned?” Lizanne enquired.
“Comparatively speaking. Whereas most of us find ourselves confined here for our unfortunate mercenary or violent inclinations, the Learned Damned owe their incarceration to more lofty pursuits.”
“Revolutionaries,” Lizanne realised.
“Yes.” There was a palpable disdain in Makario’s voice as he regarded the cluster of political inmates. “Republicists, Co-respondents, Neo-Egalitarians, all the varied shades of malcontent. For all their pretensions, they’re as dangerous as any of the others and not lightly crossed. Revolution tends to breed dangerous people, which is why they’re generally left alone.”
He fell silent as a fight broke out among the ranks of the Wise Fools. They were a mostly bare-chested bunch with shaven heads, heavily tattooed skin and, apparently, scant sense of discipline. They quickly formed a circle around the two combatants, both crouched in readiness with knives in their hands and fresh scars on their arms.
“Isn’t that against the rules?” Lizanne asked.
“The Wise Fools fight amongst themselves all the time,” Makario replied. “As long as it doesn’t spill over into anyone else’s garden, why care? However,” he went on as the ranks of the Wise Fools parted to make way for a very large figure, “it is frowned upon.”
The two combatants straightened at the sight of the huge man striding towards them, both dropping their knives. He was even taller than Anatol, his shirtless chest covered in a collage of multi-coloured abstract ink and honed to the kind of muscular perfection usually found only in classical statuary. The image of masculine perfection was somewhat spoilt by the man’s face, most particularly the shiny metal nose, which was secured in place by a leather strap.
“Meet Varkash,” Makario said. “Famed Varestian pirate. Rumour has it his nose was bitten off by a Blue drake, though you’d be wise not to mention it if you happen to find yourself in his company. He’s apparently under the sincere impression that no one’s noticed he’s wearing a nose fashioned from solid pyrite.”
Lizanne watched the huge Varestian as the two men babbled excuses at him. He nodded, rubbing his chin in apparent consideration then, moving faster than it seemed possible for a man of his size, his trunk-like arms lashed out left and right, delivering a full-force punch to the heads of both men that left them lying senseless in the mud.
“He doesn’t like to be shown up,” Makario explained. “Varestians were ever a prideful lot.”
The honour of leading the promenade went to the Verdigris, the largest and most amply attired group present. They signified their allegiance by wearing copper bands around their necks. According to Makario they never took the bands off, making the source of their name obvious in the dull green stains that marked every neck. The leader of the Verdigris was a rotund man of average height and a cheery, apple-cheeked visage. He wore a long frock-coat and a tall, narrow-brimmed hat that were both at least a decade out of fashion but nevertheless made him the best-dressed figure Lizanne had yet seen in the city. He doffed his hat at Electress Atalina as he led his people from the park, Lizanne noting that this time there was no open mockery on her face as she nodded back.
“Chuckling Sim seems affable enough, doesn’t he?” Makario said. “To look at him you’d never know he ran the Corvus gambling dens for the better part of a decade and, I’m reliably informed, always did his own killing and he wasn’t quick about it. The more he chuckled, the longer it took.”
They waited until the park had emptied out and the grand procession filled much of Sluiceman’s Way as the inmates progressed towards the main gate. It rose to approximately half the height of the city walls and, according to Makario, no convict could remember it ever being opened. The gate lay behind a secondary inner wall curving out from the great stone enclosure in a semicircle to form what Makario called the Citadel. It was from this stronghold that the constables made occasional forays into the city or launched heavily armed incursions whenever levels of disorder began to affect productivity. However, its main purpose was policing the division of supplies on Ore Day.
Lizanne and Makario fell in with the few hundred non-affiliated stragglers at the rear of the procession. They were a ragged and desperate lot, mud-slingers from the river-banks, shit-pickers from the refuse piles, some so thin and haggard it was scarcely creditable they could still walk. All clutched small bags containing whatever scraps of ore they had managed to scavenge or trade for over the preceding week, plodding towards the gate with a uniformly slow gait, eyes fixed on the Citadel and the promise of sustenance it held. Lizanne and Makario carried no sacks, having surrendered a portion of their chits to Melina, who would exchange them for the requisite amount of ore and allot the received supplies accordingly.
One of the mud-slingers fell out of the procession halfway along Sluiceman’s Way, a stoop-backed man of middling years with long tendrils of grey-black hair hanging over his face. He seemed slightly sturdier than the others to Lizanne, but his despair seemed to have overcome him. “Fuck it all,” she heard him sigh as he sank down next to a stack of empty ale barrels outside the Miner’s Repose, his mostly empty sack between his knees. Lizanne had time to note the old burn marks on his arms and the fact that he had two fingers missing from his right hand before Makario hustled her along.
“No point in stopping, dearest,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “There’s no help to be given and none to be had, not in here.”